The Good, The Bad and The Woman
by Ibaraz
Summary: Sequel to Sherlock's Woman. Sherlock and Irene are back at Baker St. As they cross paths with a mysterious enemy: London and the people closest to the detective are in danger. The couple struggle with their relationship as they work to solve the case before all is destroyed. Disaster strikes and dark secrets revealed on their perilous journey. Can there be a happy end? (Post-3x03)
1. Prologue

_A/N: This is the (long overdue) sequel to my story 'Sherlock's Woman', so if you're interested I suggest you tackle that first. _

_Second, let me say a huge thank you to everyone's support and reviews and though I am late in the game, the sequel's been brewing for a while now. __The reason for the story finally being produced, is quite simple: There's no better muse than a new season of Sherlock._

_ I hope I have a reader or two still out there. And f__or those faithful readers that wanted this to be written: Be careful what you wish for, dears…_

_Also, for those who have read Sherlock's Woman I want to inform you that I've made some alterations to it so that the story fits better with season 3 of the series. For instance, I loved Mary's interaction with both John and Sherlock, and decided I had done her a great disfavor in my own version of her. Hopefully it's a bit more true to her character and the show now._

_Disclaimer: I do not own anything related to Sherlock BBC, though I wish I did._

_Spoilers: Post-season 3 (though perhaps with a few minor changes - nothing of major importance, I believe), and evidently everything that transpired in my other story. _

_I hope you enjoy the story to come!_

* * *

**The Good, The Bad and The Woman**

**1. Prologue**

**October**

As far as weather went, it was an ordinary day in London. The drizzle had clung to the air since early morning and the skies remained a lackluster grey for almost a week. The mood of the people seemed reflected in the slow, steady rhythm of rain drops on the passing umbrellas in the streets. The sense of tiredness and contentment, with not a sliver of joviality, seemed to affect everyone in the major city, whether hopeful tourist from the States or Londoner seated in a nice, local pub.

No car in the street seemed stressed either, everyone taking their merry time and not bothering to jump on the car horn for small nothings.

It was in this bland afternoon that a black hackney carriage suddenly veered round a corner and ran a red-light. The speed of the unexpected vehicle caused quite the commotion in the street where a honking cacophony followed the dark cab through the remains of the day.

Inside the small cab, the taxi driver in the front seat did his best work behind the wheel, knowing what bonus awaited him if he reached his goal within five minutes. _500 quid._ That could buy him a couple of beers, a few lottery tickets and that bracelet he'd been eyeing for his girlfriend. It was quite funny that those suggestions of spending the cash had been the same ones the customer had offered up when he'd made the deal. As if the man had read his mind! Impossible, of course, but impressive guesses nonetheless.

"Excuse me," the blond man in the back spoke up as he leaned towards the front seat. "Is there any way to go faster?"

John exhaled in irritation when the driver guaranteed he was doing everything he could to get to the address on time. The former army doctor glanced sideways at his company and noted the distressed frown had increased between the man's dark eyebrows. Dressed in his trusted long cloak and blue scarf, the man stared down at the cell phone in his gloved hands without a word.

"Why isn't he calling back, John?"

The blond shrugged and leaned against the back rest. "And you've no clue who Lestrade was referring to? Or _why__?_"

"Clues? Yes. Answers? Nothing definite."

"_That_ is disturbing," his shorter friend breathed and pinched the bridge of his nose. He opened his mouth to continue, when the shrill ring tone of Sherlock's phone interrupted the silence abruptly like a warning signal for evil.

The detective answered and pressed the phone to his ear at once. "Lestrade? Do you know anything-"

"Hello, Mr Holmes."

Sherlock felt his blood freeze in his veins as if touched by pure frost upon hearing the voice. "You're not Lestrade."

"What? Who is it?" John whispered from beside him but the detective waved for him to be silent.

"Who are you?" he asked into the phone and his low, dark voice vibrated in the air.

"Why don't you have a guess?"

The dark-haired man sighed and inclined his head. He inhaled and when he continued, his words came swift like an endless river, "Very well. Judging by your familiar tone of voice and the fact that there are only two options as far as I can tell: I'd say you are Sebastian Moran. We've never talked before, but clearly we both know a lot about each other. I do recall you ending up in jail after a failed terrorist attempt on Parliament about a year ago. How's prison been treating you?"

A soft chuckle erupted on the other end of the line. The sound was both mocking and haunting at the same time, and too calm for what Sherlock knew awaited.

"Now…" the detective continued. "That's enough chitchat, isn't it? Lestrade rang me about your scheme a little while ago. You won't succeed, you know."

"Ah, but _time_ is of the essence in my scheme, Mr Holmes. Unless you can stop the clock, you can't stop me," Moran spoke in a slow voice. "Now, I had planned on waiting for you – to make you and Dr Watson the guests of honor with front row seats - but I simply can't wait. _I don't have the time_."

"_Wait, wait!_" Sherlock called hurriedly and his voice rose an octave. "We're almost there!"

John banged his hand on the small glass window to the driver seat and felt his pulse elevate to unknown heights. He checked his phone and once more tried to call his wife, but to no avail. For whatever Goddamn reason, she'd switched it off. He swore quietly to himself as he felt his heart beat out of control and he tried to calm himself as his fist rested against his knee. The hand trembled in the glow of the lights outside as the man waited on baited breath.

Moran's voice was once more strong and teasing on the line, as he asked, "Who should it be, Mr Holmes? _Hmm_? The charming wife, the sexy partner or perhaps the most loyal friend? You choose."

"Listen to me, Moran. I'm almost there," Sherlock implored with a dangerously calm tone of voice. In his pale eyes was a whirlwind of rage, but his outside demeanor remained impassive even as he made a deal with the devil's henchman. "You can take _me _ down when I come. Don't do this. _Don't_-"

The voice that interrupted him was deceivingly collected, "That was a rhetorical question. You see, I already have my orders on which woman to kill. Orders from the highest level…"

As the Hackney Carriage ran a corner with impressive speed, nearly crashing into another car, Sherlock glanced out the window at the street sign that flashed by in a blur. As he recognized it, he shouted into the phone, "_Moran_! We're just a minute from Baker Street-"

"I'm sorry, Mr Holmes..."

_Bang_.

Sherlock flinched away from the sound as the sudden, loud noise echoed in a flash on the other end of the line. The curly-haired man exchanged a glance with his friend before pressing his ear to the phone once more. Slowly, he wet his lips and asked, "...Mr Moran?"

"... She's already gone."

With those parting words, the phone went dead in the detective's gloved hand.

* * *

_To be continued._


	2. The Wedding

_Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock Holmes or anything affiliated with the franchise. The general story idea I will take credit for, however._

_Spoilers: Be warned once more - this is set after 3x03 so do not read unless you've watched or want to be spoiled for certain details. One in particular. Sherlock's Woman was also altered to accommodate for this particular something._

* * *

**Chapter 2: The Wedding**

**Two months earlier:**

The bells rang loud and clear outside the car as Sherlock and Irene gazed up at the sweet, beautiful church. The chiming call was merry and beckoned people to step inside and behold the joyous occasion on this beautiful summer's day. People dressed in bright colored dresses and ironed blazers passed the car heading for the building in question, unaware of the key figures seated inside the vehicle. Someone shouted something about the upcoming wedding, and laughter erupted from a small group of friends on the fresh lawn outside the main entrance. Close to the impressive building of medieval origin stood a sign that read 'St Alfege Church'.

The brunette ran a hand over her hair to assure herself it still lay perfectly in the elaborate do as she smiled, "Who knew we'd be here one day?"

The detective exhaled in amusement and admitted something he rarely had before, "Certainly not I."

Irene turned to the handsome man and pinched his chin with an endearing grin on her red-painted lips. She proceeded to smooth a wrinkle on the front of his dress jacket and said, "Well, I had a hunch."

Sherlock raised a thick eyebrow. "You would have, wouldn't you?"

"Are you ready?" the woman asked and reached for the door.

"Are _you_?"

Her ivory hand froze on the handle and she sank back against the seat. "I… don't know."

"I figured as much."

Irene lowered her gaze and the catching smile slowly faded. "I think I'm nervous, actually. I wasn't expecting that."

"It will pass," Sherlock reassured and adjusted his bow-tie.

"You're right, of course," the brunette's happiness slowly returned like a sun climbing on the eastern horizon. "So… do you want to head inside?"

The man smiled crookedly and leaned in close. "_I do._"

* * *

The church was almost filled to the brim with happy, excited people and the sound of their easy chatting rose to a crescendo in the beautiful nave of the building. A few kids ran between the pews up and down the aisle and their laughter chased the adults' affectionate words until the noises faded somewhere in the low shadows by the stone walls.

Seated in the very front row, John gazed about at the crowd of friends and family. There were several new faces, but that was to be expected for a wedding such as this.

The blond man smiled to himself and turned back to his wife. The woman was dressed in a beautiful lilac dress and fair curls framed her face perfectly. In the lady's arm sat a restless baby girl safe and sound. With soft, pale curls atop her head and intrigued blue eyes, the girl had snatched her father's heart the day she had been born almost six months ago. Even now, he couldn't help but reach out and caress her soft baby cheek and the girl grabbed hold of his finger tight with a gurgling sound of contentment.

John gently leaned his forehead against his wife's and relished in the moment as she smiled happily. "Reminds me of our wedding day," he said.

Mary frowned in contemplation. "Does it? I'm not so sure I agree. I mean, it's not the same church… or flower arrangements."

Her husband returned her frown but there was no time to comment upon it as the organ started playing the expected tune. As Bach's notes filled the small church, everyone rose from their seats and turned to face the back of the room.

John winked up at the groom in encouragement, before he too turned and waited to finally behold the bride-to-be.

From the very back of the church, on the last row of wooden pews, Sherlock sighed impatiently and drummed his fingers against his knee. "Why are we in the _back_?"

"We weren't invited, Sherlock," Irene explained for what felt was the thousandth time and leaned close to whisper in his ear when she caught an elderly gentleman in the row in front of them glaring at her. "We would have been, of course, if anyone knew we had returned, as you are aware."

"You're blaming that on me, are you?"

"You're the one who wanted to surprise people!"

Sherlock stubbornly contended, "_So did you_!"

"But let's drop that bomb at the reception _after_ the wedding. Let's not steal their thunder, dear."

"_I'm a show off,_" the man argued in a heated whisper. "Staying unseen isn't my forte!"

"I have every confidence you'll do your _best_."

The decorated wooden doors opened then and the woman in white appeared in the entrance. Molly Hooper's grin was brighter than the sun and she practically glowed in a long, strapless, off-white gown that suited her fair complexion.

At the very front of the church, Greg Lestrade lit up light a beacon as he saw his fiancée step into the room. There could be no hesitation that the two love birds had eyes for no one else in that moment. This was _their_ day, after all, and the most important in their lives up to this very one.

With a shaky breath, Molly raised her foot to walk down the aisle. Without warning, Sherlock suddenly stuck out a walking cane he had 'confiscated' from the elderly gentleman in the row in front of them. By pure accident, as the man would later claim, the bride tripped on it and fell to the floor like a gracious tree in the woods. Irene slapped his arm, but too late.

The organ quieted abruptly and the hall instead filled with gasps that echoed in the old building. Sherlock seized the opportunity and flew from his seat to help the woman up. Momentarily distraught, the bride glanced about and squealed loudly as she recognized the helpful hand. Everyone else present exchanged confused shrugs when Molly stood and embraced the man tightly.

"I'm _so_ happy you're here!" she breathed and squeezed her friend's shoulders as she stepped back to adjust her gown and the small bouquet of yellow flowers.

"Certainly, Molly," the detective said with an air of confidence. Irene knew he was enjoying the attention of everyone in the church and merely performed for the audience like a man on a stage. "I wouldn't miss this for the world."

"Thank you," the beautiful woman smiled up at her friend with warmth and compassion. "It means a lot."

The detective's grin widened mechanically. "Of course I would be here for you and George on your… special day."

"_Greg_."

Sherlock inclined his head. "…Greg. You're like family."

"I know you don't believe in the concept of weddings," Molly grinned knowingly. "But that last part was true, at least."

From the front, John managed to get a clear glimpse of his best friend in between all the rows of people that stood between them. With an exasperated sigh, he said to his wife, "Of course he'd return on someone else's day. The arsehole has 364 _other _days to return home, but it had to be today. I bet he either planned it so that he could get center stage, or he had no idea and simply couldn't help himself. _Typical Sherlock._"

Mary's grin widened and she leaned close to her husband. "_Now_ it's starting to remind me of our wedding day."

* * *

The rest of the ceremony proceeded without further interruptions and soon Greg and Molly were declared husband and wife to the sounds of a cheering crowd.

At the reception afterwards, the guests enjoyed the warm weather of the late summer in the vast, blooming gardens at Kenwood House in northern Hampstead. The wine and champagne flowed and there was already more than one overly happy guest present in the early evening.

Near the grand, white house the employees had set up a party tent for the coming dinner and all the tables were already set and prepared for the lovely celebration.

While everyone else enjoyed the sun's warm glow, John and Mary mingled through the crowds outside in search for the prodigal couple. It was inside the tent they finally caught sight of the tall man with curly hair attempting to occupy a small group of bridesmaids with a story. As John came closer, he heard the end of the tale.

"-_No, no!_ The white color wasn't intended to signify the bride's virginity. _Everyone knows that_! Traditionally, purity was associated with the color _blue_ and the Virgin Mary. Either way, it could be conceived as an old-fashioned idea with today's modern approach to intercourse before marriage. Something most people don't know, though, is that originally the bridesmaids wore similar dresses to the bride as a protection against evil. Seems far better than the hideous attires you're all-"

The blond man jumped in, grabbed hold of his best friend's sleeve and tugged unkindly as he apologized to the stunned women. Sherlock stumbled somewhat with a confused frown, but uttered not a word in protest. John and Mary led their friend away from the muttering group and over to a secluded table further away.

"They should have gone with lilac," the tall man whispered indignantly. "Like the bridesmaids at your wedding."

Mary hurriedly embraced the tall man, careful not to squish the baby in her arms, and kissed his cheek with genuine joy.

Her husband looked up at his friend with an amused twinkle in his pale eyes, "You could have called, you know. You were gone for six months with hardly a word."

"I was preoccupied," Sherlock said with a grin and patted his friend's back brotherly. His eyes sparkled with genuine affection as he beheld his short friends beside him.

"So we gathered," the blonde woman declared. She gently rocked to and fro as the baby girl yawned in her arms. "We read about all the unusual crimes being solved all over the world in the papers. I'm impressed."

"And I'm impressed you didn't go for the shock value when you returned," the short man said pointedly. "Well, more than that little stint in the church."

The other man grimaced and placed his hands behind his back stoically. As he responded, his gaze flew up over their heads and plainly gave his irritation away. He seemed like a deflated balloon, robbed of his purpose of soaring high in the skies. That, of course, was merely Sherlock Holmes being denied something he wanted. "Irene talked me out of it."

"_Really_?" John tried to hide his amused grin but without succeeding very well. "I didn't think that was possible."

Sherlock harrumphed. "Neither did I."

"Speaking of the devil…" the blond man cleared his throat and inconspicuously glanced about. "She's… not around, is she?"

There was unusual warmth in the detective's gaze as he nodded over their heads. "She's catching up with the bride."

Sure enough, Irene, dressed in a flowing, blue summer dress, seemed to be deep in friendly conversation with Molly at the the bar on the other end of the grand tent. It seemed little could interrupt them and from the distance they looked like childhood friends, though they'd been acquainted less than a year.

"Ah… I should go over there and say hello. Excuse me for a minute," John said and easily slinked away between the tables.

A waiter passed the other two and Mary smiled as she declined the detective's offer of a glass of champagne. The man, instead, merely took one for himself and turned back to his company.

The woman eyed the man curiously as she held her daughter closer. "Once may be an accident or a forced occurrence, but twice suggests the beginning of a habit, don't you agree?"

"Hmm?" the man asked as he sipped from his drink.

"_Weddings_. I thought they weren't your thing."

"Oh, they're not. Stop smiling," Sherlock winked. He paused a beat before he hesitantly gazed down at the small girl. He looked as if he'd never seen a child before in his life, and in a way, he hadn't. At least not this one. "Now, will you introduce me to the next generation of adrenaline junkies?"

"_Sherlock!_" Mary breathed and the baby awoke with a start. The mother shushed her little one before she could start crying and as soon as the disaster was averted, the woman turned back to her friend.

The man merely grinned down at mother and child and softly asked, "What's her name?"

"Elizabeth Harriet Watson," the blonde woman smiled and her eyes sparkled knowingly as she stepped closer to let the man behold the six month old child. "Born on February 15th, just a week after you two left London. She was quite big; I must say, and with a strong windpipe. But simply the most beautiful thing I've ever seen… You're the godfather, you know."

As if this had been the most important news he'd ever heard, Sherlock inclined his head once. His smile quickly faded only to be replaced with a serious yet doubtful expression as he leaned closer to the little girl. Carefully he reached out one of his strong hands to touch the baby's small one.

* * *

At the other end of the tent, John reached the women and gently touched Irene's elbow to acknowledge his presence. The striking woman turned and smiled at him in a carefree manner the man had never seen her portray before. Her cheeks were rosy and she even seemed to have put on a few pounds since he'd last seen her. It seemed whatever she and the detective had been up to during their six month hiatus; it had done the woman some good.

"Hello, Mr Watson," she spoke and her voice was smooth as silk as she leaned up and pecked him on the cheek.

"Oh, I'm sorry," Molly excused herself then as she glanced back. "I think Greg wants me. I mean… wants to talk to me."

"He _wants _you, dear," Irene assured and smiled widely as the bride hurried outside to her husband's side. The woman watched as the newlyweds shared a tender kiss in front of the cameras before escaping for some private time in a secluded part of the gardens.

Slowly, the brunette turned back to her company and noticed an amazed sparkle in his eyes as he beheld her in turn. "What?"

"I didn't think you'd be back," he admitted simply. "I honestly didn't think Sherlock would find you on time. No one's gladder I was wrong… Well, except perhaps _you_."

The woman ducked her head and merely grinned, but it was all the reply he needed. It warmed his heart to see her openly portray some of the affection he'd long since guessed she possessed beneath her frosty surface.

"I'm glad you came to your senses, Irene," the doctor said with a heartfelt smile. "Though… I wish the two of you hadn't kept it a secret for such a long time. I wouldn't have known the truth at all, unless Mycroft hadn't complained that you'd failed to appear where you were supposed to. He said you'd vanished somewhere in France and had reports that said Sherlock was with you when you'd last been seen."

"Yes, we made it a point to be seen before vanishing off the map for a while, to not give you a fright," the woman explained. "But Sherlock did contact you to tell you we were returning home?"

"_Two weeks ago_," the man nodded pointedly. "He forgot to specify when. As a matter of fact, it was a very cryptic message. We weren't even sure if you would return with him. Mary and I actually had a little wager on the matter. I bet on you, of course."

"No, he didn't," a low voice interrupted and the couple turned as Sherlock and Mary joined them. The baby was now held in the protective arms of the tall detective who looked somewhat stiff with the extra load, though he attempted to hide this behind a stiffer grin.

_The woman_ leaned closer to make herself acquainted with the curious child before remembering herself. She glanced up at the man and asked, "I'm sorry, who didn't what?"

The man patiently clarified as he gazed down at his best friend, "You bet that Irene wouldn't return with me. A tenner short, I gather. I wouldn't bet against Mary, she's a bright girl. Well, moderately so, anyway. …Not at all compared to me, obviously."

John sighed as his wife handed him a glass filled almost to the brim with champagne. He looked her in the eye and mockingly said, "Ah… He's back! How we missed his crude and sharp tongue."

Sherlock raised his own glass to his friend's. "You say it in jest, but every word of it is true, John."

The man nodded and the harmonic cling of the glasses touching seemed to celebrate the long expected reunion perfectly.

"Yes. And it was certainly worth the money to see you here again. _Both_, of you."

* * *

_To be continued._


	3. Jump

_Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock Holmes or any character. The true geniuses behind the books and the tv-series deserve all credit. Arthur Conan Doyle, Mark Gatiss, Steven Moffat, Benedict Cumberbatch and everyone else involved._

* * *

**Chapter 3: Jump**

The day after the small wedding, John and Mary invited themselves over to Baker Street for a chance of catching up with their friends. They'd brought their little one and had been welcomed with open arms by _The woman_. As they ascended the stairs, they'd found Sherlock himself seated behind his desk with his hands up in a contemplative prayer position. The married couple noticed at once that the man was anything but mentally present as he glared at something on his computer screen and greeted them with an unsociable flare, the papers of the past week scattered carelessly on the floor around him. He reminded them of _The Thinker_ by Auguste Rodin where he sat half in shadow, half illuminated by the daylight outside.

Having expected a warmer welcome, John started to pace the living room with his daughter in his arms. Mary quietly sank into her husband's old arm chair and accepted Irene's offer of coffee or tea. As everyone waited for Sherlock to return from his solitary trip to his mind palace, the worn clock upon the mantelpiece seemed to tick louder and louder with each second that passed dully.

After a little while, Mary was the first to speak, "Well, Greg and Molly should be about halfway to Tenerife by now, right? I quite envy them. I wouldn't mind some sun myself."

"I wouldn't mind a second honeymoon, either," her husband agreed with a grin as he glanced down at Elizabeth. The baby was a true charmer, but she was also a nighttime crier. Thus most dark nights were spent permanently in a condition somewhere between sleep and brain dead existence for the parents. Dates and time had begun to blur for the doctor and his wife, but the little girl was far from tired now as her big eyes took in this brand new place filled with dangerous, exciting items. Each time the man stepped close to the fire place, her small hands reached out towards the old skull and whined when she couldn't touch it.

"She really likes that," the father pointed out in good humor and glanced back at the detective who was still quite busy with his laptop. The doctor couldn't help but smile to himself as he noted the focused frown on Sherlock's features as he looked through his inbox for a new case. Despite the fresh offerings presented to him on a silver platter, the detective's gaze remained impassive to no end. John had seen that look a million times in the past. Sherlock Holmes was bored to bits.

As if feeling all attention on him, the detective at last turned and glanced up at his best friend with something akin to childish confusion as his eyes slowly cleared. "Sorry, did you say something?"

John nodded his head in the direction of the crowded mantelpiece. "The skull. Elizabeth likes it."

"Oh, she can't have it," his friend commented bluntly before turning back to the proposed cases.

"Heavens no!" the other man muttered and rolled his eyes. "What kind of toy would that be for an infant?"

Sherlock wasn't slow to retort, "Judging by her parents? The perfect one."

John's head immediately whipped in his friend's direction, but Mary interceded with the speed of a bullet. The fair woman turned in her seat and glanced back into the kitchen at the dark-haired woman who was gracefully finding her way through the messy kitchen. It was quite astonishing. The couple had been back less than twenty-four hours, and already Baker Street's kitchen area looked like a bomb had gone off in it. Of course, Mary wasn't ruling anything out.

"What about you, Irene?" the blonde asked with an innocent tone meant to defuse the tension. "How about a honeymoon?"

"You'd have to be _married_ to go on one of those," the woman drawled with plain amusement on her silky voice. "Though, a holiday would be nice."

"We just came home yesterday after a six month holiday," Sherlock pointed out but otherwise barely acknowledged her contribution to their discussion.

Irene laughed and gazed across the flat at the peculiar man in question. "You call solving crimes and more or less being in danger the entire time a '_holiday'…_?"

"Don't you?"

"Well…" the woman agreed as she carried a tray with steaming coffee mugs into the living room. As she set the tray down on the table beside the man's laptop, she shrugged. The movement was almost like that of a feline, graceful and playful at the same time. "I suppose it truly was a taste of what vacationing with you actually would be, wasn't it?"

From the arm chair, Mary winked up at her hubby. John frowned in complete confusion as he felt he had missed some vital point and watched as his blonde-haired wife scooted to the edge of her seat and asked, "It's a nice idea, isn't it? Marriage … It's not something… you two have considered?"

The doctor rolled his eyes, but curiously gazed at the other couple to gauge their reactions. Both Sherlock and Irene seemed taken by complete surprise by her words and looked as if someone had knocked the wind out of them. Both stared off into space for a brief moment, neither meeting the other's eyes, as the sound of the clock once more interrupted the tense, expecting silence.

The tall man recovered fastest as he reached for one of the coffee mugs and replied, "I'm not the marrying type."

_The woman_ raised her eyebrows almost indignantly and finally looked at him. "And _I_ am…?"

The man looked up at her with an unkind glare. His pale eyes filled with murky wisdom to the very brim and he mockingly said in a low voice, "You're _divorced_. Remember?"

John felt his jaw drop and subconsciously took a step closer. "Hang on! You were _married_? _You?_ …_Married? _Why didn't that come up sooner? What, during the years you were away from London? "

Irene's unfaltering glare kept the detective's captive as she frostily answered, "Yes."

"And divorced in the same time?"

"Yes."

"Sounds short for a marriage," the blond man pointed out delicately and frowned as he tried to read the woman's physical reaction. He could see her raising numerous barriers between them he'd rather hoped had crumbled long ago. "What happened? He cheated on you? … You misbehaved?"

The brunette opened her mouth to continue when Sherlock suddenly raised his arm to prevent her. In a flowing motion, the man rose from his chair and inspected the woman with the curiosity of a cat. From the look on his strong features, it seemed this was a moment he had simply been waiting for a long time and couldn't wait to properly sink his teeth into. Not even a good case could beat this rare opportunity. He slid past her to her other side as he took a sip from his cup and then whispered in a dark, vibrating breath, "Let me."

Mary frowned. "You don't know this, Sherlock? I thought you knew everything about everyone."

"Generally, I do. But you, of all people, know that specific rule has a few exceptions," the man explained himself.

"But you _did_ figure me out," the fair woman pointed out.

The detective ignored her as he squinted his eyes and set to work with one of his most difficult tasks to date. "I deduced you were divorced already when you returned on New Year's Eve, as you recall. From the tan line that has disappeared now, I'd say you had divorced about four weeks before returning to London. Give or take a day."

John shuffled from one foot to the other and then happened to notice how his young daughter was gazing up at the deducing mastermind with wide, wondrous eyes. That couldn't be a good sign, could it? Surely it was merely due to the man's expressive face and low, soothing tone. _Surely_.

"But… did you marry for love?" the blond man questioned from the side lines. "You would have, wouldn't you?"

"Forgive John, Irene," Sherlock sighed. "He's under the impression that love guides us through life and decision making, instead of _reason_ like you and I know. The question isn't why you married; it's why you _divorced_…? I mean, besides the obvious reason you told me once. There's more to this tale… isn't there?"

The woman's face was impassive as a brick wall during a long second, before a fleeting smile appeared on the corner of her thin lips. Without a word, she slowly grabbed one of the mugs and raised it to her mouth, while the others waited on baited breath.

"Come on!" the detective whined impatiently and frowned down at her. "_Tell me_!"

Irene's grin widened as she looked between the two men. "I did what I had to do for _protection_. That's my answer to both of you."

Sherlock exhaled in amusement and stood tall, as if the answer was acceptable for the time being. Something sparkled in his ocean colored, expressive eyes as he admitted, "You know, I am tempted to marry you…"

John and Mary exchanged a shocked look, but remained silent for fear of ruining a moment that would very likely not come again. They knew every breath out of place could distract this delicate dance taking place between the other couple, like finest glass breaking by mere accident.

After a beat, the man completed his warm sentence, "… to see who turns up on your side of the wedding."

The woman stood on her toes and pecked the man's cheek tenderly. "Not many, I'm afraid. And _certainly not_ my ex-husband."

* * *

An hour later, the doorbell rang a single, shrill time and a dark-skinned, slim woman climbed the stairs almost cautiously. The steps were light, yet firm, and rhythmically echoed in the hallway outside the flat, like waves on a shore.

Sherlock's gaze flew to the open doorway as she stepped inside the living room and his face fell at once. His back straightened almost mechanically and everything about him turned frosty and unlikable as he squinted across the room.

John, Mary and Irene looked up from their conversation as they saw the change in the detective's body language that seemed to scream of robotic repulsion. They turned to the guest, dressed in a short, pale jacket and form-fitting pants, and even the doctor sighed in frustration.

"Why are _you _here?" the detective growled and his gaze hardened as ice in winter.

The woman, with her unruly curls pulled back in a high bun, paused and lingered by the door as if another step meant a surrender she was not willing to admit to.

At length Donovan released a deep breath and raised a hand in defeat, while her eyes boldly told another tale entirely. "I wouldn't be here at all unless I actually needed to be… Lestrade left me in charge while he's away on his honeymoon."

"Still doesn't explain why you're here," Sherlock's tone was short and testy.

"You're really going to make me say it, aren't you?" the woman frowned and something dark flashed in her chocolate colored pools as she stepped closer, barely acknowledging the others in the room.

"_Yes_," the man bit back quickly. "And I'll enjoy every second of it."

"It's a case…" Donovan started and shifted restlessly. It wasn't merely evident to the great detective that the words that followed were painful to admit, but no one said a word to aid the police woman. "… It's about a person who went missing last Tuesday. Ronald Adair."

"_Ah_," Irene breathed from her seat and turned her attention up at the police woman. "The politician? He's noble - son to the Earl of Maynooth, I believe. Dabs in foreign affairs and intelligence somehow... I don't recall all the details."

Sherlock turned to her and questioned, "You know him?"

"Old client," the woman shrugged.

Donovan rudely interrupted as she gazed from the brunette to the detective, "Yes, the same man... We've investigated the matter, and everything suggests he's lived a calm, happy life in the spotlight. Never a threat to his person, never had a problem with anyone. Not even a parking ticket. No medical history either. Then, all the sudden… up he goes and leaves his wife a suicide note. A witness claimed they saw him jump from Kew Railway Bridge last Tuesday. Tried to stop him, but the man wouldn't listen."

The curly-haired man nodded distantly. "I do believe I read about that in the papers. Mr Adair is-_was_ a pretty important figure, wasn't he?"

"… Rescue boats were sent out immediately, but no body has been found. We've checked up and down the river, but _nothing_."

"His body could have been pulled down, or the current could simply have been too strong. Might have carried the man _miles_ before the rescue boats arrived," the detective's voice remained unkind as he savored the woman's agonizing cry for help.

"_Possibly_," the police reluctantly consented through gritted teeth. "But I still need to find him, and since I can't… I thought you could."

"Could what?"

The woman sighed and it seemed to take all her strength not to punch him in the face. She swallowed and the muscles in her lean neck tensed as she leaned closer and said, "_Help. Me…_ I have no evidence to explain why Ronald Adair would suddenly kill himself, and no body to explain it. I… need your help, Freak-… _Sherlock_."

The detective clasped his hands together and poorly hid his glee as he rose from his seat. "It's not enough."

"What?" Donovan exhaled in disbelief. "What else do you want to hear? That I need your ruddy mind to solve a case 'cause I can't do it myself?"

"Yes, that would about do it," Sherlock said mercilessly and headed out of the room in search of his dark sport coat. "I'll take the case, since you asked so nicely. Come on, John!"

* * *

John cleared his throat as he stepped out from the car into the green, park area and onto the Thames path that ran through the landscape west of central London. He'd never been here before, as he preferred his walks more centrally located. The quiet area filled with blooming trees and chirping birds was still not far from the buildings and the reality of the major city, but far enough to offer some solace in a troubled world.

Further down the road, he saw the red brick stonework and steps that led up to the tall, old Kew Railway Bridge. Beyond that, he saw the iron monument itself stretch out between the two banks, Kew on the one side, Strand-on-the-Green on the other, as if to separate two feuding neighbors. The land areas were divided by the wide, mysterious river that flowed freely, hiding more secrets than it revealed in its murky depths.

As Donovan marched up the steps to the bridge, the doctor strolled slowly beside his friend. Clearly the detective was in no rush to aid the police he loathed.

The blond man glanced up at the tall detective and casually asked, "So… _Why_?"

Sherlock frowned down at him. "Why, what?"

"Why didn't you ask Irene to tag along?" John clarified as the two men slowly ascended the stone steps. "You two have been solving crimes all around the globe, after all. I thought she'd replaced me as your… _sidekick_."

The man snorted and threw his friend a glance that was somewhere between confusion and amusement. "She's not _you_, John. Don't get me wrong. I like having her around. Gets the job done faster. But…"

The other man nodded. "I get it. I do. Tell you the truth, I'm glad. Mary's kept me in trouble, alright, but it still can't compare to crime solving with you."

If Sherlock Holmes was possible of 'beaming' down at anyone, that would be the exact word John would use to describe the grin on the man's face now. "I think that's the nicest thing you've ever said to me."

The doctor chuckled to himself as they reached the top of the steps. He stopped and squinted up at his friend as the pale sun irritated his eyes from the clear skies up above. "So the time I told you you're my best friend…?"

"_Oh_," the detective breathed and seemed to reflect on the matter with utmost care as his eyes danced with plain emotion. "Well. _Second_ nicest, then."

"Are you two done gushing over each other?"

The best friends turned in the direction of the police woman, who was impatiently waiting further ahead on the bridge. The monument itself carried two railway tracks across the mighty waters and connected the railway traffic in London with cities such as Richmond and Stratford. It consisted of five wrought iron lattice girders. The crisscross pattern of the pale iron on the sides of the bridge was almost as high as John.

The detective thoroughly let his eyes fly across the surface of the tracks and lattice, looking for any clue that might have been left from the occurrence the week before. As far as John's eyes could see, there was nothing odd about the location. No blood splatter, no muddy footprint, no nothing.

"So, _Freak_…" Donovan asked as the men approached her where she stood approximately halfway across the old bridge. "The brunette in your apartment, she looked familiar. Do I know her from somewhere?"

Without turning from his task, the man breathed, "You tell me."

"Is she someone famous?" the woman squinted and put on her sunglasses. "…She wasn't your girlfriend was she?"

"What is it with this obsession for gossip that fascinates you people?" Sherlock glared down at the police beside him. "You fill your heads with useless trivia and ignore the bigger picture like witless robots."

Donovan exhaled in amusement and glared up at the great man. "_You_ are calling... _me_ a Witless Robot?"

"_No_," the man denied firmly with a sigh. "I'm calling you an idiot. Repeatedly behind your back. Just ask John."

The blond man eyed his friend curiously and said, "You didn't answer her question. How _do_ you two define your relationship these days?"

The other man took pause as he picked his looking glass from his pocket and shrugged like a lost kid. "She once suggested we didn't need to define anything. I'm happy with that."

"But she _is_ your girlfriend, isn't she?" the doctor baited.

"I don't have girlfriends," the detective pointed out with annoyance lingering on the edge of his low voice, clashing terribly with the peaceful singing of the birds in the trees nearby. He looked at the rails through the looking glass as he kept talking, "It suggests a _sappy_ level of affection I don't feel for other people. If you must refer to her in a way that's not her first name or title, at least consider using the term 'lover' or 'sexual companionship'."

John grimaced and closed his eyes tight as he tried to find his way out of the verbal labyrinth he'd been trapped in. "Companion. Partner. I think that's the best term. _Partner._ Yep, definitely the best one."

"Partner, it is, then," the dark-haired man agreed without raising his gaze from the important search for clues. He looked like a bloodhound in action; unfaltering and precise in his search for the truth. He inspected the iron lattice closely before he stood tall with incredible speed and deduced, "This is where he jumped, isn't it?"

"I… what?" Donovan was caught off-guard by the sharp turn in conversation but soon recovered. "Yes, it is. Our witness said she saw Mr Adair jump from this point. A K-9 later confirmed this is the _exact_ spot where he jumped for seemingly no reason."

"There are also traces of mud on the lattice made by an expensive shoe of German brand that's been there about a week," Sherlock pointed out in a dull voice. Whether to have the last word or simply to show off, no one could be quite certain. Probably both. "Hugo Boss by the looks of it."

"… Right."

"_Ooh_…" John inhaled sharply as he gazed over the railing. Far below he saw the grey, murky waters flow with impressive strength. He gazed to and fro between the shores and then straight down again. "That's a long drop. The fall alone might kill you. Probably killed our missing guy."

Sherlock eyed the lattice closer before he leaned far over the railing. "_Nope_."

"Excuse me?" the woman blinked and stepped closer.

As she did, the detective moved back. He squared his shoulders and his pale eyes danced in the sunlight with something akin to glee. With a short nod, he spoke in a dry voice, "It's a tricky jump, but a very simple case. Mr Adair didn't die when he jumped off the bridge."

"What, you mean when he jumped into the river twenty meters below?" the woman questioned with an equally unkind tone of voice. Her eyes betrayed her disbelief and for a second she looked as if the man had grown an extra head. "Uh-uh. No. I don't believe it."

The short man reluctantly agreed with her, "It would be near to impossible. Regardless, if the fall didn't kill him – the currents would have held him beneath the surface until he drowned. It's certainly deep enough for it. Must have carried the body far away from here, that's why the police haven't found it. Just like you said, Sherlock. I'm telling you, it's a very slim chance he survived such a jump."

One of the detective's thick, dark eyebrows rose and he stepped forward once more as if drawn to the challenge by its sheer magnetic power. A defiant sparkle appeared in the blue pools of his bottomless eyes as he grabbed hold of the railing. "Oh, _really_?"

"Don't do what I think you're ab-, Sh- No, no! _Sherlock!_" John cried out and reacted too late as his friend gracefully stepped onto the lattice and hauled himself over the railing, falling headlong into the depths below.

The blond man felt as of something grabbed hold of his heart and squeezed 'til there was no more oxygen to be delivered to his craving body. He gazed down at the river far below, but the man had already disappeared beneath the surface in a significant splash that rippled the water.

"You've only been back _one_ bloody day! _One day_!" John shouted as his eyes scanned the waters fearfully. He waited impatiently for what must have been one of the longest minutes of his life, but no one resurfaced. The river had swallowed Sherlock Holmes whole.

Though her eyes were startled, Donovan eventually managed a faint shrug. "Good riddance. Don't you think…?"

* * *

_To be continued._


	4. The Vanishing Man

_Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock Holmes or any character. The true geniuses behind the books and the tv-series deserve all credit._

_A/N: As with Sherlock's Woman, scenes in Italics will be flashbacks and/or memories._

* * *

**Chapter 4: The Vanishing Man**

"Are you sitting down?"

Irene smiled fleetingly as she gazed out through the window and pressed the phone to her ear. Baker Street was calm and quiet in the pale afternoon, like any normal day in the big city. She'd missed this familiar air and was glad they had returned once more to a place and a flat she'd lately come to think of as 'home'. She wasn't sure when she'd first realized it, but one day '221 B' and 'home' had become synonymous with each other. The transition had been seamless like water in a stream, yet not without future implications, Irene rather feared. Apart from her flat in Belgravia, she'd never quite felt at home anywhere else before.

"What a cliché way to start a phone call, John. You've been gone three hours. What could he possibly have done?"

There was a beat in which silence greeted her expectant ear, until the man gruffly admitted in a voice close to its breaking point, "He jumped from a bridge."

The woman took pause and sank onto the low couch in the living room as she felt her throat go dry. The world around her slowly faded as she focused on the voice in her ear. "What?"

"He jumped off the Kew Railway Bridge," John explained. "Thirty meters straight down."

"Why?"

There was a deep, telling sigh and no explanation was really needed after that. "To prove a point. He never resurfaced… Donovan sent out a search team within minutes when we realized he wasn't going to reappear. We haven't found him yet. Personally, I'd like to think he's crawled out of the Thames further down and is just messing with us, but… I don't know. Prepare yourself for bad news, is all I called to say. The jump could have killed him, just as we warned that stubborn, know-it-all cock."

The woman leaned back against the soft cushions and exhaled as she tried to clear her jumbled thoughts. They'd been back in London a day, and already the clever mastermind had gotten himself into potentially serious trouble. Irene wasn't sure if she was to be impressed or frightened by his addictive behavior for danger. Either way, her heart was beating irregularly inside her chest and she wasn't quite sure how to calm the unnerving shiver that crawled up her spine like a spider in a web.

Before she had a chance to process the information, however, the pale door to the flat was thrown open with a jolt. Irene jumped in surprise at the sudden motion and gazed up at the man that suddenly stood before her having appeared like a Jack-in-a-box. His dark pants and suit jacket were almost dry, though his shoes still groaned with all the moisture they'd been forced to absorb. Sherlock closed the door carefully and looked at her with pale, twinkling eyes. He seemed giddy as a school boy as he grinned down at her without inhibition.

"I solved it!" the man breathed and his low voice vibrated happily between the walls of 221 B.

On the phone, John solemnly continued, "Logically, we should have found him by now. The river could only have taken him so far…"

Irene slowly wet her lips and tried to focus on the man's gruff voice. "John…"

The detective shuffled from one foot to the other and ruffled his wet locks as he impatiently stared her down. "Would you – _please_ - hang up?"

Unknowing, the voice on the phone kept talking with less and less spirit, like a sun descending on the skies in autumn, "-The search boat is scouring the shores, but nothing so far. This might take a while, but I make no promises."

"He's here," _T__he woman _stated simply.

"If we don't find him soon we have to- He's _home_?" the doctor's voice rose an octave and something akin to kindled fury dripped from his voice. There was nothing but an empty silence for a long moment, before he managed a low, "How…? Never mind. That _arsehole_! Tell him… Could you tell him I'd really appreciate it if he stopped jumping off high places? I don't think my heart could take another scare like this…"

"I will," the brunette smiled and hung up the phone.

She gazed at the small object in her hand as the detective's joyful voice floated through the room, "Done?"

Distantly, the beautiful woman nodded and slowly rose from her seat to stand before the taller man on weary legs. On the brink of exaltation, much like usual when solving a case, the dark-haired man licked his lips and said, "I'll tell you how I solved it. I-"

He didn't make it further when Irene's hand suddenly slapped him roughly across the cheek. The punch burned his skin and left a sour aftertaste in its wake that seemed unwilling to leave him for awhile. The man touched the tender area on his face and glared down at the slender woman with a perfect blend of confusion and anger.

"What was that for? Trying to cut yourself on my cheekbone?"

Irene released an amused breath that only seemed to disorient him even more. Tiredly, she said, "That was John on the phone. He was worried, you know. Do you have _any idea_ what you're doing to that poor man? You've already jumped off one building… you didn't think this would bring back bad memories?"

"… Oh." Sherlock's face fell as he pondered the revelation. "I didn't. You're right. I'm sorry."

"No need to apologize to _me_."

The handsome man's smile returned on his strong features as he placed his calloused hands on her lean shoulders and pleaded, "Then can I instead _please_ share my findings with you?"

Irene stepped up onto her toes and tenderly pressed a kiss to the man's full lips. He returned the favor with equal sentiment and swayed closer to her smaller body as if unable to stay away in his elated state of mind. He kissed her like she was a drug or worse, and _The woman _felt both addictive and addicted to his touch in turn. The woman withdrew suddenly and scrunched up her nose. "You taste weird."

"The Thames isn't the cleanest river," he whispered and his breath barely grazed her cheeks.

The brunette nodded and pulled herself from his embrace. "Go ahead. Tell me."

The curly-haired man was at once focused on the game and the deductions. Any sliver of emotional response to her touch evaporated into thin air as he walked around the woman to dispose his damp jacket on his beloved arm chair.

"The fall from Kew Railway Bridge isn't as long as it appears," he started and his words flowed fast but gentle. "It didn't take much time to deduce anyone could survive, having jumped correctly into the water. When John and Donovan didn't believe me, I had to prove it."

"_Of course_."

Whether he missed her mocking tone, or simply chose to ignore it, Sherlock pushed on, "I jumped and stayed low until I found a hidden spot to get out. Neither John nor Donovan saw me get out of the river. As no witness would have seen Mr Adair crawl out quite alive and well. I found a shoe print on the banks to prove I was right."

Irene inclined her head slowly and squinted her eyes. "And why did he do it? Based on there being a witness, I suspect it was rather intended as a fake suicide to get away from something."

"And you're right," the man smiled proudly at her.

"But what? And why?" _The woman_ question as she saw 'The look' begin to take form on the man's stellar face. Clearly he thought she was further ahead in her deductions than she actually was, and it ticked her off somewhat. "He was a lord and a politician on the rise, why would he fake his death?"

"It gets better," Sherlock cooed. "I took a train to Richmond-"

"Let me guess: You ran into a certain Ronald Adair?" as the man glared down at her with barely contained irritation of having lost his momentum as storyteller, Irene rolled her eyes. "Sorry, do go on."

With a curt nod, the tall man gratefully proceeded, "Thank you."

* * *

_His shoes splashed wet and furiously against the pavement, filled with the entire river from the feel of it, as he stepped across the street towards the lone pub ahead. Sherlock pushed the door open and stepped inside the cozy, little establishment. At four o'clock in the afternoon, the place wasn't exactly filled to the brim, but with a few loyal customers sharing a beer or two across the small booths or by the bar. Clearly most of them were alcoholics or loners by choice. Even the bartender – recently divorced, by the looks of it – had the eyes of an alcoholic on the downfall. His porn mustache didn't do him any justice either._

_"… Can I get you anything?" the bartender questioned as Sherlock stepped further inside while dripping on the floor._

_The detective threw him a disinterested look and replied, "A towel."_

_His eyes searched the booths further away and at last caught sight of the expected. Without further ado, he steered his long strides over to the booth in the corner by the painted glass windows and slid into the stall across from the lonely man. The leather seats groaned beneath his soaked attire as if it was in fact being tortured in the Tower of London._

_Across from him sat a man in his mid-thirties, with short, rat-colored hair and dark eyes that stared at the detective in wonder and dread. Sherlock recognized the mug from the papers, but even if he hadn't he would have found his victim without a problem. Mr Adair wore a plain tee and sweatpants, an attire not customary for a wealthy, upper class man. The latter fact was evident from his manicured nails and newly trimmed hair, not to mention the Rolex around his left wrist that flashed beneath the sleeve of his oversized hoodie. All in all, to the trained eye, at least, the man didn't blend in with the rest of the crowd in the pub._

_"Ronald Adair, I presume," Sherlock said and leaned back against the maroon backrest._

_The man moved swiftly as if to rise from his seat, but the detective's words kept him firmly rooted in place, "I wouldn't run if I were you. There's a police car standing on the other end of the street. All I have to do is shout and you'll be revealed to the world again. Not a very good solution for someone who's trying to hide, is it?"_

_"… How… did you…?" the stunned man managed feebly._

_"Oh, you don't know who I am? Sherlock Holmes, world's only consultant detective. The police hired me to find you, Mr Adair. They expected me to help them find a dead body from the bottom of the Thames, but I knew better, of course."_

_"… How?"_

_"Read the short notice in the papers last week. Quite telling, I must say," the dark-haired shrugged his eyebrows as if nothing else needed to be said on the matter. "Now, the 'How' we both know. I'm more interested in the 'Why'. If you're desperate enough to jump from a bridge and fake your own death, you evidently are running from something rather interesting."_

_"Please, Mr Holmes…" Adair's quivering voice did little to appeal to the other man's good will. "Don't tell anyone I'm alive. I beg of you… keep my secret."_

_The detective grimaced teasingly, and enjoyed the flicker of fear that passed in the pale eyes opposite from him. "I might… if the story is good enough."_

_"I can't tell you anything," the other man said and his voice trembled like an impending earth quake. His shivering hand raised his pint to his lips and Sherlock barely needed the full second to see the truth himself._

_"Addictions." The single word echoed between the two men like a 21-gun salute and changed the tone of their conversation entirely. Ronald Adair noticeably tensed as he set down the glass on the table and swallowed slowly. In that second, the sleazy bartender appeared and dropped a pale towel on the table before Sherlock._

_As soon as the man was gone once more, Mr Adair met his company's strong glare. "… It's not what you think."_

_"Oh, but it is," the other man countered unkindly as he proceeded to wipe his face dry at last. "Addictions. Plural. Clearly drugs and socially unacceptable behavior taking place outside the frames of marriage. And several past scandals somehow all kept secret from the public, am I right? Someone's found the evidence and has decided to blackmail you. That's why you did it."_

_Mr Adair's face fell as he looked across the quickly shrinking abyss at the consultant detective. "I can't go back… The terms were quite final, Mr Holmes. I'm only here, in Richmond, for another day or two."_

_Sherlock frowned and tried to contain his joy of finding another twist to the sordid tale. "Then you're leaving England. You're waiting for a new, fake passport, a new identity to take with you overseas… You're not only faking your death, you're disappearing entirely. Oh, this is rather good…! Whatever information they have on you… you're willing to leave your life of being a respected lord, politician and husband behind not to be caught with your hand in the cookie jar."_

_"It's human, isn't it?" the frightened man asked._

_"To act in your own interest? Certainly."_

_"To be afraid! I'm only following instructions, Mr Holmes," Mr Adair explained and seemed on the brink of a mental collapse should his present company turn on him._

_"I see," the man's dark, low voice lingered in the space between the two men and in itself seemed to further expose the truth of the mystery. "The terms for not exposing your scandals were evidently that you agreed to leave everything. You're not simply fleeing out of cowardice. Now that we've established the 'How' and 'Why' for your actions… Tell me 'Who'?"_

_Mr Adair ran a weary hand across his long face and shook his head weakly as if having been presented before his executioner. The fear in his dark eyes ten-folded as he gazed out the window and seemed to mentally curse himself for talking at all._

_"I really can't tell you this…" the lord shut his eyes tight and exhaled slowly. "I can't risk it. They're watching to make sure I leave. I know they are. If I don't follow orders, I'm dead. And so is my wife."_

_"Ah…" the detective breathed and dropped the damp towel on the table. "So it's someone with a lot of power over people."_

_"You should watch yourself, Mr Holmes. This could very well be your problem soon enough."_

_As if this warning was of little consequence to him, Sherlock waved his hand for the other to continue. "Yes, yes… I still need a name, Mr Adair."_

* * *

Irene eyed the man before her as he sank into his leather arm chair and exhaled heavily. "I'm assuming the good lord didn't offer a name?"

"He didn't know it…" the great man said with a sigh that seemed to reverberate from the bottom of his soul.

"I was wondering…" The woman gracefully walked over to join her partner and sank onto his lap carefully, while he looked up at her with wide, curious eyes. One of her hands traced the outline of his face as she found a comfortable position. His cheek was already quite red from where she'd hit him and she kissed the spot briefly as he feigned pain. "You knew he'd faked his death when you took the case, didn't you?"

"Of course," the detective nodded. "I'd read it in one of the papers this morning."

"Yes, but you'd read- what, exactly?"

Glad to share more of his deductions, Sherlock happily complied with her request as his grin widened, "In the paper from last Wednesday, there was a small notice that caught my eye. A short mention of a very peculiar thing that had happened the day before. Reports suggested that a man had melted on the train to Richmond, for when the vehicle arrived in town there was nothing but a wet seat, not urine, in an otherwise empty carriage. The police thought it was a joke. The truth was rather obvious, though."

Irene couldn't help but smile down at the wondrous man. It was times like this she marveled at the powers his brain contained, and could barely keep from voicing her admiration aloud. "...I see."

"There are only two things I'm not so certain about…" the great man admitted at length and it seemed a hard confession on its own. "Why the police needed a body so desperately, and why someone would blackmail Mr Adair to leave the country. What importance could it have?"

"Coincidence?" the woman suggested as she ran a hand through his damp curls.

The man eyed her pointedly. "What do I say about those?"

She tugged on his dark hair and her face lingered an inch from his where they shared a breath of air. "... The universe is rarely so lazy. So it's connected and part of something bigger. Maybe we'll find out soon enough?"

"I always do," the man confidently said and shifted in the seat. He gently pushed on the woman in his arms and she stood so that he, too, could rise. "If you'll excuse me, I' m going to see my brother,"

Irene frowned up at him. "Why?"

"To tell him I'm home, I know how lonely he gets when I'm away." Neither sentiment, nor genuine affection touched his voice, though it was still a warm tone that lingered between the couple.

"… And?" the woman questioned, not so easily fooled by the man.

"_And_ damage control."

"... You mean because I broke my deal with him?"

"Yes," Sherlock inclined his head and his eyes swirled with thoughts that soon disappeared behind an impassive wall meant to protect one or the both of them. "He'll want to throw you out of the country now."

Irene shrugged her shoulders indifferently. "I figured as much."

"No worries. I'll sort out a solution," the man guaranteed and reached out to squeeze her slender shoulders.

The woman's eyebrows rose flirtatiously as she stepped closer. "Are you trying to impress me, Mr Holmes?"

His indifference melted like ice in the summer as he smiled down at her. "I was under the impression that I didn't need to."

"No, that's true," Irene admitted and her grin widened to mirror his. "But a compliment or a thank you would be well received, either way, am I right?"

"You know me."

"I do…" she cooed.

Sherlock shrugged and once more sentiment vanished from his features as if they'd never been present in the first place. "Besides, it will be a pleasure to ruin Mycroft's plans."

"_Thank you_."

"Anytime," he leaned down and kissed her cheek briefly before he whispered, "...Save the compliment for later?"

"I was planning to."

"See you later then," her man commented and moved to step around Irene.

With a knowing grin, the woman purred before he could get too far, "Shower first, Sherlock. You stink after that little swim of yours."

He stopped a few paces behind her and glanced down as if realizing the soaked state he was actually in for the first time. He inclined his head in agreement and leaned down to whisper into her ear, his rumbling voice still excited from solving the case. "Care to join me?"

* * *

_To be continued._


	5. The Diogenes Club

_Disclaimer: I still don't own Sherlock Holmes or any other character in this. The true geniuses behind the books and the TV-series deserve all credit._

* * *

**Chapter 5: The Diogenes Club**

After a hot shower and a quick change of clothes, Sherlock jumped into a taxi to the one address he knew he'd find his older brother at this late hour. When the Hackney carriage pulled up next to the lavish, white exterior of the corner building, the consultant detective paid the driver and stepped outside without further ado.

The old building stood almost hidden among its peers in the heart of London, protected, not surprisingly, by the mysterious, quiet air that surrounded it even in the modern age with its busy rumor mill.

The gilded, yet tastefully low-key sign beside the front door simply read 'The Diogenes Club', without closer specification. More than one passerby had certainly wondered about this club, and what it hid within its fine establishments, but only the invited knew what waited beyond the black entrance. Sherlock had known about the private establishment since its founding, of course. He'd never been formally invited, but with his brother as co-founder, he'd found his own ways of nestling inside the hidden realms of the self-contained upper class. Before John had appeared in his life, the good detective had spent quite a lot of time within these very walls whenever he craved solitude or was working a particularly hard case. The building embodied his mind palace, in a manner of speaking, in the real world outside the four walls of his head.

As he strolled inside the traditional, close to sacred, halls now, no one greeted him at the door. Casually, the tall man steered his steps further inside the familiar maze of silence until he came upon the first chamber that offered a sneak peek into the dealings of this quirky location.

Designed with classical Victorian oak walls it was a simple room. Five luxurious, comfortable armchairs with small complementary tables stood spread throughout the room, with enough space between them as to never inspire conversation. The fireplace framed by white stone stood as the centerpiece of the chamber, but no fire was lit even at this hour. The sun had almost set upon the western horizon outside and the room was lit simply by the numerous lamps spread atop the tables, like beacons in an ever fading world.

Four out of five armchairs were occupied as the consultant detective walked to the very center of the room and not one of the men even acknowledged him. All of the rusting men seemed occupied by their papers, though the reason for their absent reaction had more to do with the (un)spoken rule of silence at all times.

Sherlock could not help but smirk like a devil in disguise as he clapped his palms together. He felt the tension rise immediately between the men verging on the inevitable brink of anthropophobia, though in pure defiance no one turned even this time to look up at him.

Without missing a beat, the tall man spoke loudly with the purring voice of a satisfied kitten, "Well, well… In another time and place, as you are aware, I would appreciate this soothing atmosphere and refreshingly deduce all your secrets without those annoying interruptions you always meet outside these walls, but today I'm simply here for my brother. Is Mycroft around? Oh, come now, don't be shy! _Fine_. If you won't speak and I have to wait for my brother's attention, I might as well have some fun. Now, who's been receiving bribes to affect Downing Street recently? _Raise your hand_."

As he spoke, the three elder gentlemen looked increasingly angry as they conspicuously glared up at the consultant detective. Their patience seemed strung tight to its very limit and it was mere restraint that kept them from boiling over. The man closest to the fire place fervently rang a bell on the wall as he trembled with fury of having been disturbed in his safe haven.

Sudden movement appeared in Sherlock's peripheral view, however, as the fourth seated man slowly rose from his armchair. "Excuse me."

The consultant detective swirled around in the stranger's direction and took in the man's appearance. He was young for being a member at this particular club, approximately Sherlock's own age if the man had to guess. Clad in a glen plaid suit and a bold, blue tie, the stranger stepped over to the detective with a kind smile on his full lips. The man was nearly as tall as the great detective, though with a leaner body build that suggested a lot of cardio exercise. He had an aquiline nose and his chiseled chin was adorned with a short, trimmed beard and his short, blond hair was neatly styled.

Though he was intrigued by the man's boldness in this quiet establishment, there was little else that peaked Sherlock's interest when it came down to it. After all, he had been in the middle of starting a deduction game but now was forced to quit. With a disinterested grunt he managed a low, "Yes?"

"Eh…" The other man faltered upon noticing the unimpressed reaction and searched for words, while the three old men sighed and harrumphed indignantly as if the talking duo had just declared world war on them all. "You're Sherlock Holmes, aren't you? The detective? I've read about you. I simply wanted to introduce myself."

The consultant detective squinted as his eyes scanned the stranger before him, in search of answers not already given. _700 Dollar Suit. American. CIA Agent. Killer. Unarmed. Left-handed. Smoker. Philatelist. _"Mm, now you have."

"…Nice to meet you, Mr Holmes." The American breathed at length and held out his hand to his company. It was a simple, open offer to seal this meeting, and reluctantly Sherlock shook the offered hand. _Moisturizer, _the detective added to his list of deductions and grinned stiffly. The clean-cut man pocketed his hands and inclined his head, "Actually, Mr Holmes… I believe we have a common denominator."

"What's that?"

At that second, Mycroft Holmes walked round the corner to the chamber and stopped in the open doorway. Plain disgust shone in his pale eyes as he beheld his brother and he seemed ready to explode on the battlefield. The government employee opened his mouth, but stopped himself as he noticed the other members still glared up at those who disturbed the quiet purpose of the club.

Mycroft stormed over to the two men and leaned close to his brother's ear. "You know the rules."

Sherlock grimaced and shrugged his strong shoulders innocently. "Guidelines."

"_Rules_," the older Holmes disagreed fervently. "Strangers' room; _Now!_ Follow me, please. Both of you. And do keep your mouth _shut¸ _baby brother."

* * *

With more force than necessary, according to the younger brother, Mycroft Holmes led his company to the only room in the extravagant club where talking was allowed. The room resembled the rest of the establishment, with several bookcases along the walls, chandeliers, a desk, some plants and two luxurious armchairs in the middle of the room.

As soon as the elder Holmes boy had shut the door, he turned and glared at his brother. The latter pretended not to notice this tempered fury as he held his hands behind his back and tilted his head sideways, like a puppy expecting playtime. The American stood awkwardly on the side line and watched the match commence before him.

"Not a word for six months, brother," Mycroft began in a low voice he only reserved for the darkest of days, "…and _this_ is how you choose to acknowledge your return?"

"Well, yes."

"I wasn't expecting a visit, Sherlock. Rain check?" sarcasm basically dripped from the older man's voice like poison into a glass that he soon offered up to his kin.

With a scolding look, the younger Holmes' more cheerful voice rang clear in the room as if he saw no wrong with his actions, "Is that really the way to treat your prodigal brother's return?"

Mycroft snorted and grinned down at his brother unkindly. "In this particular case? I quite think so."

In a second, Sherlock's playfulness washed away and the detective breathed, "We need to talk, Mycroft."

"_I'm busy,_" the other man stated stubbornly. Whether out of brotherly disdain or plain pride, Sherlock wasn't sure, but evidently the government official wasn't willing to play his part right now. "Mr Norton is here for an important meeting."

"I'm sure it can wait."

"It _cannot_."

"Five minutes, Mycroft."

The American raised his hand in a disarming fashion then as if to single timeout and flashed the two men a hesitant grin, "It's alright, Mr Holmes. Take your time. I'm not going anywhere."

The older brother sighed and dejectedly opened the door once more. "… Five minutes."

Mr Norton stepped outside without missing his cue. As soon the gateway was closed, tension descended upon the Strangers' Room and its occupants like a snug blanket of brotherly love. Mycroft exhaled as he lowered his gaze. With a disgruntled, brotherly tone of voice, he sharply hissed, "Must you humiliate me at my own club?"

"What are siblings for?"

_The Ice Man _shook his weary head once and his shoulders slumped as he glared down at his brother once more. The older man's eyes were pale and cold, as if no sentiment existed or had ever existed within those windows to his lonely soul. A lie, Sherlock knew, but nonetheless something that caught his attention and an alarm went off somewhere deep inside his mind palace.

"I honestly don't have time for you at the moment," Mycroft clarified. "So tell me what it is you want, and get out."

"Not even a 'Welcome home'?" the curly-haired man pushed on just for the heck of it.

His brother's eyes seemed to drill a hole into Sherlock's brain as he shook his head ever so slowly. Without beating around the bush, the man cut through the tension with his words sharp as a knife, "Clearly you've come to convince me not to hunt Ms Adler out of the country. Save your breath. She can stay with you for now. Naturally she can't return officially, but since you've maneuvered around that so far, I believe it won't be a problem as long as you don't raise any suspicion. I'll leave it alone. Free of charge."

The offer stunned the younger man into silence, and he found himself grasping at straws to explain the sudden turn of events. He'd expected hell would freeze over before his brother ever accepted the ex-dominatrix at Baker Street. The scandal that had nearly ruined them fours years ago had always been like a dark cloud over Mycroft's head, but without explanation it seemed to have faded now to leave a clear blue sky in its wake.

This sudden shift of loyalty didn't sit well with Sherlock. It didn't ring true. He decided to fish for more clues, "Not even a little banter? Not a promise or threat in return for the favor? I had a rather long list of arguments."

Mycroft's responsive grin was anything but genuine. "Sorry to spoil your fun."

"… What's going on?" the young man asked at length. He was used to having different agendas to his brother, but something instinctively told him this was different. And the fact that his brother wasn't willing to let him in was all the more disturbing. "What have I missed being away?"

"Well…" the older Holmes boy shrugged cruelly. "You kept me in the dark; I'm only returning the favor."

The detective frowned as he tried to read the stone face of his brother. The only lead he had to go on was the most obvious one, and so he tested his bait while changing the subject abruptly, "I solved the case with Adair. Found him safe and sound waiting to be transported out of the country for good. I promised to keep his secret. Though, I figured you might like to know."

Mycroft's eyebrows rose to meet his receding hairline as he questioned, "_Me_? Why would I want to know?"

"Please, brother… You already knew. We both know that."

"…Yes," the man admitted at length as he circled his brother and stepped deeper into the lion's den. He walked over to the liquor cabinet and poured himself a glass of bourbon as he explained himself, "It was almost too easy, wasn't it? I'd have solved it myself days ago, if I wasn't otherwise… busy."

"_Lazy_."

"That, too."

Silence reigned once more as the brothers glared at each other across the divide that seemed to have been present between them forever, keeping them separated yet connected at the same time. The battle between their eyes ended without a conqueror as the younger man eventually sighed.

"You know I can tell something's wrong."

"I'd tell you all about it, _but_, you know…"

The younger man snorted and buttoned his blazer casually to cover his fury of being left out of the loop. "No need. I'll figure it out."

Mycroft sipped from his glass slowly before grinning like a Cheshire cat. "…I'm cleverer than you. You'll figure out diddly squat, Sherlock. Now, _get out_."

The consultant detective turned and walked towards the exit as he replied, "Already gone."

"Unfortunately not."

"Must you always have the last word?"

"Must _you_?"

* * *

About a week later, Greg and Molly had returned from their honeymoon in the sun and were invited to Baker Street for a calm dinner with John, Mary and the current flat mates of 221 B. For this particular evening, John and Mary had opted to go with a babysitter for their young daughter and leave her behind while the adults socialized.

_A couples' dinner_. The doctor still couldn't quite get over how funnily the word tasted in his mouth when he knew his best friend was part of one of those couples. It all seemed too ordinary for the great genius, who currently wore a brand new apron and was serving a warm casserole to his guests. They were all seated around the table in eager anticipation of the night's friendly promises of talk and relaxation, and apart from John, no one seemed to think the image of Sherlock Holmes in an apron was parody worthy.

"I'm not sure I dare to eat that," Mary joked as her sparkling eyes glanced down at the casserole.

Sherlock indignantly glared down at the fair woman. "I don't cook often, true, but I'm an excellent cook, Mary."

The blonde grimaced and tilted her head sideways. "_Fibbing_."

"_No_. I once took a cooking class to help me convict this woman for _poisoning_-"

"YouTube, huh?"

"Yes," it was not the man's deep voice that confessed, but rather Irene's sultry tone that interrupted the conversation. Sherlock's face fell at once as he glanced down at the woman, dressed in a pale cocktail dress for the occasion, as she walked around the table to serve wine. The red liquid swirled within the glasses like blood and mystery blended into a perfect aroma while it lulled them all to a comfortable state of mind.

With one tan arm resting across his wife's backrest, Lestrade leaned closer towards the great man to offer a form of comfort. His eyes shone with something akin to youthful exuberance as he said, "Hey, Sherlock, I heard this joke on our honeymoon that you might like. What was the demon arrested for?"

"Possession."

"No. Po- _Oh_… Heard that one before, had you?"

"Nope."

With the ease and gracefulness of a swan in flight, Irene changed the topic as she sank onto her chair beside the detective, "Why don't you tell us more about your honeymoon, Molly?"

"Please do," John cleared his throat and leaned his elbows on the table top. "You don't have to be Sherlock Holmes to see you've got some sun, but what else were you up to?"

"_Please_. It's basically a sex holiday, John. You ought to know," Sherlock muttered as he discarded the apron and sat down to enjoy dinner, oblivious to the tension that lingered in the air after his blunt delivery.

From the short end of the table, Molly blushed bright as a raspberry as she tried to save the conversation from slippery ground, "W-we saw the Pyramids of Güímar, and-"

"_Boring_!"

The ex-dominatrix sighed and her amusement balanced somewhere in the grey area close to irritation. "_Sherlock_!"

John leaned closer to her as he noticed something dark simmering just beneath the surface of his best friend. "What's the matter with him?"

The brunette defiantly replied loud enough for all to hear, "He met his brother a week ago. Mycroft didn't object to me staying here with Sherlock. Apparently that wasn't what he wanted to hear and he's been acting all curmudgeonly ever since."

"You're _misinterpreting_," the detective hissed in the woman's general direction before he turned his attention to the detective inspector on his right. "Tell me, Lestrade, do you have any unfinished cases from the past six months I might want to have a look at?"

The grey-haired man barely paused as he turned all serious and crossed his arms over his chest, "Depends on what you're looking for."

"Anything peculiar enough that it might have caught the interest of my brother."

"Oh, I see now…" John breathed and sat back in his seat. His eyes twinkled knowingly as the mystery revealed itself. "This was never a couples' dinner. This wasn't about welcoming back our newlyweds, was it? He wanted _information_. It makes so much more sense now."

Sherlock continued as if he hadn't heard his friend's mocking words, "Mycroft is hiding something from me. I need to figure out what. It'll probably be linked to MI6. They're clearly working with the CIA, so possibly that, too. _Murder_, if we're lucky."

The seasoned detective inspector pondered his friend's request and at length suggested, "Well… I can only think of one possible case that puzzled us and matches those requirements. Two MOD officials turned up dead in the beginning of April, under similar circumstances. We suspected it was a serial killer, but we never found any proof and left the case on the slow burn."

"_A serial_," the tall man grinned from ear to ear and nudged his partner affectionately. "This week's turning out nicely, after all!"

From his seat, the man's best friend shrugged his shoulders and said in jest, "Molly and Greg returning home… Irene being granted a free pass to stay with you… Elizabeth crawling to you - which was the first time she's ever crawled on her own, I might add -… _None_ of that beats a possible serial killer?"

"It's _me_ you're talking to," Sherlock frowned as if the answer to his question was as plain as day. His confused expression only intensified as the blond man chortled aloud. "The only way it can be better, is if it truly can help explain Mycroft's behavior."

"... It _is_ an on/off-thing, isn't it?" Irene marveled and her curious eyes burned bright in the glow of the candles as she inspected the great man.

John snorted beside her. "He has an off-mode?!"

The woman shrugged and turned back to her partner with a flirtatious grin, "It's like it's his birthday, either way."

"No, _no_," the detective breathed and at last a familiar twinkle touched his eyes as he gazed down at her. "But it's better than Christmas!"

Molly exchanged a glance with her new hubby before she looked at the familiar faces around her and hesitantly cleared her throat, "Well… Now that we've gotten _that_ out of the way, how about saving the _fun part_ for tomorrow, and eat before dinner turns cold? The dead will still be dead tomorrow, as you know."

"Alright," Sherlock inclined his head. It was plain to everyone that he was more prone to cooperating with his friends now that he had something to look forward to the next day. Mary and John shared an amused gaze but refrained from commenting on his childish behavior. The detective turned to his right with something akin to a genuine smile on his full lips, "What else did you see on Tenerife, Geoffrey?"

Mrs Lestrade sighed from her seat and glared across the table at her old friend. "For the hundredth time – His name is _Greg_!"

The detective faltered momentarily as he mutely nodded and inconspicuously glanced at his best friend at the other end of the table. The latter merely shrugged in reply and inclined his head towards the dinner. Sherlock acknowledged his mute suggestion and tugged into the casserole without missing a beat.

* * *

_To be continued._


	6. Serious

_Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock Holmes or any character. The true geniuses behind the books and the TV-series deserve all credit._

_A/N: Another filler, I'm afraid, but the juicy stuff is not far away now!_

* * *

**Chapter 6: Serious**

The deflated detective sat in his armchair with his grimmest face while the rain poured heavily outside. It seemed the skies had opened up in biblical proportions on this particular day. The man watched the grey heavens and wondered if the powers that be (if any existed, which he had no evidence for) also shared in his somber mood this bleak September afternoon. The weather, cold and gruesome, surely matched what was in his heart.

At length, Sherlock muttered, "… Dull. Look at the world; it all turns so _dull_ when a case proves to be nothing more than a common murder. No serial killer to get the blood pumping…"

Irene was busy cleaning the kitchen area as she listened to the man's over-dramatic reaction to the development over the past weeks. In the beginning, the detective's spirits had raised to new highs as he'd explored the possible serial killer. In the end, however, it had turned out to be two different killers with no connection whatsoever. One drunk, temporarily deranged man and one frightened, accidental killer. Both men had fessed up within minutes of meeting the great Sherlock Holmes, and had thus robbed the man of even the simple pleasure of sharing his deductions. He'd been stripped of his purpose with these cases, and judging by the amount of cigarettes he'd stashed in the toe of a Persian slipper he wasn't about to leave his attention-seeking hole of martyrdom any time soon.

The detective had in fact demanded Lestrade's written apology as a consolation prize for a misleading case. Irene had been with her partner every step of the way, and had heard his disgruntled mutterings before. As she listened to him now, she was confident he didn't understand that the words he was uttering were in fact making him come off as a psychopath rather than the high-functioning sociopath he insisted he was.

The woman moved a couple of scattered files on the table and distinctly heard a sharp, metallic sound reverberate between the walls as she did. She discarded the papers and glanced down at the small object that had fallen out and now lay revealed on the tabletop. Irene paused as her mind registered the item. "What's this, Sherlock?"

Without listening to her, the man continued with his own somber monologue, sinking deeper and deeper into reflection as he got up to pace the room, "… It happens often enough; _unfortunately_. There's no motive to it, no planning and therefor no challenge. How _tediously boring_ that all was!"

"Oh, dear God…" the brunette breathed raspingly as she gazed down at the diamond ring in stunned astonishment. Her slim fingers gently picked it up and she quickly asserted its true value. 4 carat. Pear shaped. Mazarin cut. Not shabby at all.

"I can't believe Lestrade thought I'd get anything out of that case! My request was specific enough, how did he get it so wrong? And I still have no idea what Mycroft's hiding from me… _A waste of time!_" the man all but shouted as he threw himself down on the sofa and pinched the bridge of his nose, attempting to shut the world out.

The woman smirked back at the reclining man and casually tried the ring on for size. "If you're planning on proposing, it's a bit large."

"What?" Sherlock questioned and turned his handsome face to gaze up at her. As he saw the item on her finger he waved off the implication without a thought, "Oh, _heavens no_! That's the only clue I have on this other case I've been meaning to introduce to you. Molly fished that out from the victim's rectum."

"_Ah!_" The woman grimaced and tugged off the diamond ring at once. She discarded it on the table top without missing a beat. While it clattered unhappily on the hard surface, the detective kept his pale gaze on her, uncertain of her mental health.

"Feel free to work on that one on your own, dear," Irene's face remained in a disgusted frown as she stepped away from the table and left it at that.

* * *

A few days later, when the last light of summer had undeniably turned to the first glow of autumn and the colors outside had completely turned from brightest green to fiery red, John drove by Baker Street after work for a social call.

He found the great detective, still clad in his maroon robe despite the late hour, busy with some experiment at the kitchen table. The man held a long, narrow knife in one calloused hand as he leaned over the table with focused eyes.

"Hey, Sherlock," the blond greeted his friend as he walked closer to curiously inspect what exactly the man was doing. He stepped back hurriedly as he realized the man was carefully slicing into decapitated, bloated fingers with such care it could very well have been another hobby entirely. "Whoa, _hey_!"

"Hmm?" the detective managed and seemed unable to pull himself from his interesting task at hand.

The doctor was saved by the bell as Irene popped her head out of the bedroom, dressed sharply for the evening. As she put on some earrings, she smiled over at their guest, "Hello, John. How are you? There's some soup on the stove, if you're hungry."

"Actually, I am. Long day at Bart's and Mary's out tonight. Thanks!" Feeling as home as when he had lived there himself, the former army doctor grabbed a plate but stopped himself as he gazed down at the saucepan. Hesitantly, he glanced back at the tall man. "There are… eh… no fingers in this, are there?"

"Nope."

"_Good_," the man said, helped himself to a portion and sat down at the short end of the large table, where he didn't need to see Sherlock's experiment too close. Still he couldn't help but watch as his friend carefully peeled off the skin of the fingers with such tender devotion. It looked like the detective's own bloody, morbid version of writing a poetical sonnet.

"John, I could use your surgical expertise on this," the detective said suddenly and gracefully slid over to his friend. He hovered close to the blond man and basically shoved the bloated old thing in the man's face. "If you were to make an incision, how-"

"Eating here, Sherlock!" the doctor interrupted and tried to cover his plate.

The two men looked up as Irene joined them in the kitchen and exhaled in amusement, "_Honestly_. You did the same to me. I had to eat in the living room."

"Yes, and you nearly threw up," the curly-haired man harrumphed and stretched to his fullest height as he walked across the room towards her. "Weak-stomached woman."

The brunette raised an eyebrow as he came close, but refused to back down. "I'm _not _weak-stomached, Sherlock."

"Then _you _come here and cut for me."

"Is it a group activity now?" the woman asked as the man tugged on her elbow. She obediently followed him around the counter and took the knife offered to her. Irene grimaced as the odor of his experiment fully hit her nose like a punch to the gut. "Ugh, that really stinks."

The man paid her words little heed as he stepped close until her back was flush against his chest and he could feel her every muscle move beneath his touch. He gently grabbed hold of her forearms and guided her to cut the human finger before her on the cutting board. She'd cut but a few millimeters when the man suddenly sighed in passive frustration and placed his hands on either side of her on the tabletop.

"That won't do. _Move_," The detective said unkindly, pushed away from the woman and stepped back over to his friend with the abused finger in question. "John, what do you think about this cut?"

"Still eating!"

"Sorry I was no help," Irene said sarcastically with a feline smirk on her red-painted lips as she reached for her purse on the counter. With graceful steps she moved towards the staircase. "I have to go anyway. Molly's waiting for me. Love you. Bye, John."

The detective's head swished in her direction once more, but she was already gone down the stairs. As thoughts swirled round and round in his mind palace, he distantly heard a faint '_plop_!' followed by a displeased sigh from his best friend.

"I'm full..." John said dryly and Sherlock gazed down at him. In the man's soup bowl, among the meat and vegetables, bobbed a lone, bloated finger up and down. Both men watched it for a few seconds, before the blond doctor slowly turned his head up to gaze at his friend.

"…So sorry about that, John."

The other man had a curious twinkle to his pale orbs as he tried to read the tall man. "She really took you by surprise with that, didn't she?"

"With what?" Sherlock feigned innocence and stepped back over to his cutting board.

"You've been _together_ more than half a year and you've… _she's_ never said it before?"

The tall man exhaled slowly as if that particular breath had been kept under close surveillance a long time but could be protected no more, "_Never_. I didn't think it was that serious."

"Well, you were all coupley just now."

Sherlock looked as if the blond man has just grown another mustache. "Cutting fingers together is _coupley_?"

"To you two it is, isn't it?" the other man offered encouragingly. "It seems quite serious."

"So you see the bad implications of this, too?"

John faltered and frowned in confusion before the light bulb slowly turned on above his head. "_Oh_! You meant 'serious' as something _negative_."

"How _isn't_ it negative?" the detective demanded to know as he glared down at his project without actually looking at it anymore. At length, his eyes glazed over and his jaw tensed. "... _Sentiment_. I might have to end it already."

"There you going again with the dramatic flair…"

The dark-haired man swirled around on his friend with an impatient glare that filled his eyes with dark passion. "I still wouldn't say it's love, John. No matter what you clearly think."

"What?" the other man all but lost his momentum. "_Why?_"

"You know I don't function that way."

The doctor sighed deeply and prepared himself for another battle as he wearily began, "I thought we'd discussed this once…? Love _isn't_ a disadvantage-"

"I _care_ for people, I'll admit to that," Sherlock interrupted with irritation dripping from his low, booming voice. "Well, a _select few_ people. But the concept of love in the sense of romanticism and beauty that you suggest is still a foreign world to me. I doubt that will ever change."

"So you're saying… what?" John hesitated on the edge of the precipice, unsure how to continue without falling over the edge. "…That you could live without her?"

"_Yes!_ But I don't _want_ to."

The shorter man nodded as he tried to digest this new information. "Where does that leave you two? Do you have a future together… as a couple?"

Sherlock sighed and there was a growling noise coming from the back of his throat as he closed his eyes tight. "That's the second time. Didn't we agree on 'partner'?" the man grimaced as he searched for the right words to convey his dislike. "_Couple_…?"

John inclined his head slowly. "Yeah, yeah, I know. Not your thing. Then, do you have a future together as _partners_?"

The detective shrugged but not a single word escaped the prison of his well-guarded tongue.

The doctor exhaled as he processed what it could mean. He was sure this was a mute confession, one he'd never expected and this time he didn't suspect any foul play. The emotions had to be there somewhere beneath the surface. "Well, _I_ think so. Want to know why?"

"Not really, but you'll just tell me anyway, won't you?"

"You _chose her_," John pointed up at his friend with a knowing nod. "You know what I'm saying?"

The other man's pale eyes danced across the room in obvious confusion and awkwardness. "Not really."

"Jesus, Sherlock… You really don't listen to your own advice sometimes?"

"If it doesn't apply to me, why should I?" the man questioned like the infant of emotion he sometimes was.

"But it _does_ apply. At least now it does. Remember after…" the man cleared his throat and shifted in his seat. "...Mary… you know. Shot you….?"

Sherlock inclined his head. "You wanted to know why she had done it, why she had to be the one."

The blond attempted to guide his friend's mind on the straightest course, "You explained it so very simply: _Because I'd chosen her_. It's the same with you and Irene. Don't you see?"

"No. No, John. I don't."

The other man sighed in defeat and leaned back in his seat. "Sometimes, I wonder why I bother trying at all."

To this, the great detective offered him a warm smile, "You and me both."

* * *

Out on their girls' night out, Irene and Molly found themselves comfortably seated in the small pub not far from the latter's new home. Though it was a small establishment, the after work had already crowded the place with relieved workers at the end of a long, hard day.

Molly, dressed in a girly jumper and long hair loose, enjoyed her glass of red wine as she occasionally touched the wedding ring on her finger and smiled to herself. She eyed her companion and mused about their unusual road to friendship. The scientist had been more than relieved when she'd found out Irene hadn't been dead after all, and unabashedly happy to see her unexpectedly present at her wedding. Molly didn't have many female friends for various reason, and her initial opinion of the ex-dominatrix hadn't been too favorable either. Still, here they were with a respectful, open and honest relationship neither had expected in the beginning.

Unable to contain her excitement, the young woman commented, "You know, I never did tell you how happy I was to learn you were alive. I know you'll think me silly for saying it, but I hope this means we can be friends for life now."

"We're not children," Irene said in dry amusement, "but I echo that sentiment, dear."

Molly pushed her glass aside as she leaned closer over the table, "I'm sorry to be nosy, but there was something I wondered..."

"No…" Irene said dismissively before the question was even spoken and then clarified, "We're still not a couple."

"You've been together seven months, just… play along," the other woman requested with a teasing voice. "John once said that he feared for any of Sherlock's girlfriends, should he ever get one. He said he expected Sherlock would probably try and poison the woman just to see if he could. Has he…?"

"_Arsenic,_" the woman acquiesced with a wry grin. "A few small doses over a week. He called the ambulance straight after I started exhibiting symptoms and called him out on it. Said he felt guilty, but I'm not so sure. He looked more disappointed he couldn't follow through with it."

Molly tittered and her cheeks flushed somewhat as she admitted, "Is it bad that I'm not surprised to hear that?"

Irene returned the smile and then tilted her head sideways as she broached another topic close to heart, "How's married life?"

Molly's once more touched the wedding band around her finger and couldn't stop the infatuated grin that spread on her fair features. "It's been a month. I still can't believe it. Greg's... _perfect_. He thinks _I'm_ perfect…"

Irene reached over and squeezed her friend's hand in reassurance. She didn't know the words to express it any other way, but knew words were unnecessary were it mattered the most.

The other woman squeezed back with equal sentiment before she pressed on, "But, back to you. Tell me more about what it was like travelling with Sherlock? I haven't really had a chance to talk to you about it."

"You know we solved crimes, I've told you about that," the brunette explained with the unspoken question on the edge of her strong voice.

The other woman wet her lips and searched for the right words. "Yes, but I meant… He's _Sherlock Holmes_. It's not all crime solving and roses… No roses?"

"Not literally, no," Irene laughed and ducked her eyes briefly. "Alright, I'll tell you this; It wasn't always simple, as you must have figured out. He left me for two weeks in Berlin, for example. Without a word. Eventually, I got irritated and decided to leave but he reappeared in our hotel room before I could. He led me on this fake murder hunt that he'd set up for me during the past weeks. Elaborate, with real bodies and blood. His idea of a romantic gesture, I believe. I solved the case and all was well that night. The next morning, as a payback, I duped him, left him a single clue and got on a train without a destination in mind."

Molly opened and closed her mouth a few times, unsure how to reply. She wasn't entirely surprised to hear the confession, but wasn't sure how to express it without declaring both her friends abnormal for behaving accordingly. At length, she managed a low, "Wow…"

Irene inclined her head as if able to read what went unsaid between the lines. "He found me a week later in a small town in Bulgaria. I'm still not sure how, but I was impressed. Still am."

"Huh…" the other woman shrugged and sipped from her glass. "Sounds to me like he's starting to figure you out."

Irene's warm smile faltered momentarily before it once more widened to dazzle her friend. "Yes… _At last._"

"Exciting!" Molly offered as she noted the short lapse. She liked to think she'd started to understand her peculiar friend, too, though evidently the thought wasn't as appreciated by Irene. Either way, the scientist knew that particular hesitance from her own days of being head over heels for the detective. "Isn't it?"

"I suppose so," the brunette shrugged her slender eyebrows and sipped from her wine casually.

* * *

When the clock had passed the stroke of midnight and the moon stood high in the autumn night, _The woman_ paid for her cab and stepped out onto Baker Street's silent hum. The road was all but empty and the lampposts that surrounded the long street was the only offer of light as the rest of the world slumbered in peaceful darkness.

As Irene searched through her purse for her keys, someone suddenly pushed against her. She struggled against the person but found their forceful grip too strong as she suddenly found herself pressed up with her back against the wall, only a few feet away from the entrance to 221 B.

Her heart threatened to gallop away in her chest, but she forced herself to remain calm as she breathed deeply and glared up at her assailant. "What the hell's this? Release me!"

The man was close to 6 feet tall and wide like a door, bulked with muscle as if he was more bull than man. His features were mostly covered in shadow as the lamppost's pale light unfortunately stood behind him. The mysterious man had her completely caught in a powerful grip, with his forearm pressed across her chest to hold her in place. She detested being treated like a caged animal, but still she saw no way to escape.

"Take care, Ms Adler…" the man warned and his deep voice rumbled low as if coming from the bottom of a well. "This is his first warning… and your last."

Irene grimaced as she tried to wriggle loose to no avail. Her breaths came heavier as the man half crushed her airways and pressed her harder against the wall, "…Who do you work for?"

"You should know the players," the man offered with such dry sarcasm that the woman wanted nothing else than to knock him out.

"Is this Mycroft's idea of a practical joke?" she managed and was happy to realize her voice still carried strong and defiant despite her desperate position.

The large man leaned closer and growled, "He'll lose; your detective. He'll be wise to step back before it starts. Perhaps you oughta help him make the decision."

"Perhaps you ought to back off right now," the woman snarled and managed to reach her purse with a trembling left hand. "I have a small Ruger SP101 in my purse and I _will _use it. _Step_. _Back_."

She could barely see it because of the darkness, but she could practically feel the man's smirk as he released her and was suddenly gone in the dark of night. Irene wasted no time as she fished out the keys, unlocked the door to 221 B and flew inside. As she locked the black door, she leaned heavily against the wood and took a couple of calming breaths to collect her scattered mind.

Her back ached where it had been slammed against the wall, but other than that she was okay. As her mind cleared from any last trace of shock, she tried to understand the situation but came up short with options. She only needed the full minute to make up her mind on the subject: As long as she couldn't make sense of it, there was no point in alarming Sherlock. It was better to keep this a secret and confide in no one.

She inhaled one last, reaffirming breath, released the door and then calmly climbed the stairs to her home.

* * *

_To be continued._


	7. Turning Point

_Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock Holmes, Irene Adler or any other character. The true geniuses behind the books and the TV-series deserve all credit._

_A/N: Oh, I'm having too much fun writing this and the twists and turns to follow!_

* * *

**Chapter 7: Turning point**

The busy life of being a consultant detective rolled on with a vast array of cases, and soon they found themselves on the doorstep to October with its fallen leaves and bitter eastern winds.

On one of the last mornings of September, Sherlock found himself rudely awakened at the crack of dawn. As he gasped for air, groggily trying to figure out the source of his awakening, he heard the voice of his personal alarm clock innocently echo in the darkness of twilight, beckoning him towards the light of day.

"_Ah_, you're awake," Irene cooed. She waited patiently as the man turned on the small lamp that stood atop the bedside table before facing her as the covers rustled beneath his movements.

The detective ruffled his locks and suppressed a yawn of sizeable proportion as he blinked to clear his eyes of lingering dreams. He was more used to waking _The woman_ at any and all odd times, and so decided to dutifully play along now that the roles were reversed. He could play _that _part once, to humor her. "What do you want?"

One of her slender fingers traced unspecific patterns across his strong, bare chest as she spoke in a clear voice, "Don't be mad, but I've been thinking. And it _is _just a thought. … What about adoption?"

The dark-haired man was at once serious as he scooted to a sitting position in the wide bed and pulled the covers close for warmth. He gazed down at the woman beside him for a long, quiet minute and pondered her proposition with great care. Eventually he shook his head slowly and surely. "No. Did you see the ridge of the nose? _Identical_ between father and daughter. Clearly not adopted."

Irene shrugged as she considered the case in question with more fervor than before and shuddered as the cool morning air caressed her naked arms. "Surrogate mother, then?"

The man grimaced in doubtful acceptance. "_Possibly_…"

The fair woman smiled disarmingly as she hauled herself onto her knees and came face to face with the unique person in bed with her. Her eyes danced in the faint glow of the lamp and she tantalizingly hummed, "You're just saying it like that because _you_ didn't think of it first. _Jealous_?"

"Maybe a little," he breathed and tried not to smile at the unspoken implication that always seemed present whenever he was around her.

Irene hovered closer to his face and Sherlock noticed her pupils dilate accordingly. Whether by lust or genuine affection, she lingered an inch away from his full lips. In control, the predator watched her prey as if preparing to play with it before breakfast.

The man tilted his head sideways as he, in return, read her like an open book. A grin crept onto his face as he saw the subtext plainly reflected in her gaze. "You knew I would discard your first suggestion. You were trying to sidestep me so I wouldn't expect your second one."

The woman shrugged her shoulders in feigned innocence. "A girl does what she must to get ahead."

Before he could remark, another noise, harsh and crude in its abruptness, broke through their moment of shared solitude. With a deep sigh that echoed from the depths of his chest, the man glanced at his vibrating phone on the bedside table. He angrily reached for it and replied without delaying the inevitable.

"Sherlock."

Irene took the momentary distraction to climb out of bed with her feline grace and put on the blue robe she'd by now claimed as her own. The faint, sweet scent of the great detective still lingered in the luxurious fabric, but otherwise it was all hers. When the man hung up the phone a minute later, he practically flew out of the bed, with less grace and more determination exuding from his tall, strong frame.

The woman glanced up at him and shrugged her eyebrows. "Case?"

"Case," he agreed with a sharp nod and brushed her shoulder as he walked around her to the wardrobe. "Get dressed."

* * *

"You love it. Admit it."

Sherlock glanced back at his partner without interest when he heard her voice compel him to attend her will. The woman waited in the living room already fully dressed, as he shrugged on his long, heavy coat and reached for his sea-colored scarf. "What?"

Irene crossed her arms over her pale cloak as she clarified, "When you can take out your winter coat after a long summer and turn up the collar towards your sexy cheekbones. You _love _being all mysterious."

The curly-haired man tried to hide his pleased smirk as he fingered the soft fabric of his scarf. "_Mysterious_? Really?"

"_Really,_" the woman sniggered before relaxing back into predator mode, where she undeniably felt most at home. "You know… it's a sight for sore eyes. Maybe I should have you right here, right now on our desk…"

The shadow of a grimace fluttered across the man's face like butterfly wings as the dominating woman stepped into his personal space. When she rose onto her toes to close the gap, he firmly placed his hands on her shoulders and pushed her down. He needed his mind focused to the maximum of its potential, and this was not helping him think straight. If the case was everything he was hoping it to be, sex and lust had to be erased from his mind palace and be as forgotten memory carried away on the autumn wind.

"_Tonight_, Irene. Tonight. We need to see Lestrade first."

"_Tonight_," the beautiful brunette repeated, licked her lips and stepped away with her tail between her legs. Something dark lingered in her eyes even as she leered teasingly. "… Give me my Sherlock. And when I die, take him and cut him out in little stars; and he will make the face of heaven so fine… that all the world will be in love with night and pay no worship to the garish sun."

The tall Brit frowned and carefully put on his favorite scarf as he turned away from his partner. "Star-crossed lovers?"

"Aren't we?"

The question cut through the air like a dagger in the deep, making it impossible to ignore now that the cat was out of the bag. So much for subtext and letting words be unsaid in the void that separated them. Sherlock knew what she meant, or at least believed so, as he glanced at her from the corner of his eyes.

"… We are."

The bittersweet moment was finalized as Irene met his gaze dead on. Her pale orbs sparkled unwavering and brilliant with preexisting knowledge. The great detective wasn't surprised to learn that the clever woman, too, was aware of their expiration date. He'd never expected anything less from her brilliantly shining star.

He stepped back to her and reached out to touch her pale cheek as he watched her build up a stronger fortress already. _Self-defense in advance._ A confidant smirk concealed any eventual pain on her features, and the man could but mirror the smile with disarming warmth.

"Enjoy it while it lasts?" the woman suggested congenially.

"_Absolutely_," his soft voice vibrated in the small space between them. "…Which is why I think we should go solve this murder."

Irene exhaled in amusement and seemed to be on top of the world as she tugged on his collar. "I was thinking about _dinner_."

"After?"

"Sounds smashing."

The man held out his hand to indicate she could lead the way for them, but his face fell in brief fear as a thought struck him. "Just to be clear… We both meant case _first_, right?"

* * *

Within minutes of arriving at the crime scene, Sherlock had deduced all the necessities. A woman of British/Chinese descent had been shot in her apartment located not far from Berkeley square. With a flat on Grosvenor Street, it was no difficult task to deduce she was a woman of some means. Lestrade had informed the consultant detective that the woman, Mei Barrow, held a high position in the government. All this had led the consultant detective to suspect jealously or foul play in association with her work, possibly illegal activity. ...There were still some blanks to fill in.

Everything about the case was standard, though. The shot had missed her heart with a few inches, whether intentionally or a sloppy job, the detective was uncertain. The impact alluded to someone desperate, yet the efficiency of the bullet suggested tampering with the killing instrument itself, which in turn pointed to professional. He couldn't be sure of either, since the bullet would be taken to ballistics before he could investigate it closer.

At the moment, Sherlock and Lestrade stood in the narrow hallway of the grand apartment decorated in a minimalist style. The hallway itself was crowded with forensic equipment admits the woman's seemingly endless amount of expensive shoes and offered no helpful clues to the puzzle. In the living room ahead, the two men watched as Irene and Donovan hovered over the corpse and clues.

The detective inspector glanced up at his friend as he remarked, "She makes a good detective, you know. She's caught on quickly to the procedure of things. She's better than she was six months ago, if I recall correctly."

"Yes," the detective agreed in a monotonous voice. "She learns faster than John and finds clues like older men find grey hairs."

Greg shuffled from one foot to the other as he eyed the man beside him. A hurricane swept past in his chocolate colored eyes as he tried not to glare. "…Are you trying to insinuate something?"

Sherlock carelessly leaned closer to gaze down at the inspector's thick head of hair. "Nothing."

The policeman opened his mouth, but Irene stepped into the hall in that moment and swiftly headed towards them with determination in her every step.

"Sherlock, I've found something," she said in a commanding tone of voice as she walked past them and into the clean, sterile stairwell outside.

"_Much_ faster than John," the dark-haired man muttered to himself and swiftly left to accompany his partner in crime deducing.

Left to his lonesome, Lestrade ran a hand through his short, grey hair. "Molly says it makes me look like a 'silver fox'…"

* * *

Irene stopped in the middle of the simple stairwell between two floors and gazed about circumspectly. The detective followed her slowly with a curious expression on his long face as he came to a halt on the step below hers and slowly shoved his hands into his coat pockets.

When she was assured there was no one around to eavesdrop, the brunette turned back to the man and stroked a strand of hair behind her ear. Her eyes were focused on one thing and one thing only, completely enraptured with the deductions of which she'd become an integral part. Sherlock could not help but grin at her expression that he knew was very much a reflection of his own. She was enjoying the game to the fullest. He hadn't anticipated this all those months ago when she had reappeared in his life. He had to admit she impressed him most when she peaked in this fashion.

"I recognize the victim," the woman said sharply, unaware of the man's train of thought, and met his gaze firmly. "She was a client in my former career. I knew what she liked."

The man shrugged his long coat closer to his body as he failed to see the connection. "And that's supposed to be important to me… why?"

"You know I had a talent for making my clients share _secrets_. Her employment in the government is a cover. She's _MI6_, Sherlock."

The man's eyes widened in appreciation as he found himself once more on the same page as his partner. "_Oh_… And here I was afraid it would be an insignificant case!"

He swiftly leaned close and pecked her cheek where her ivory skin faded into the corner of her mouth. He then spun around, partly for dramatic value, and rushed down the stairs, calling out, "Thank you for this!"

Irene touched her cheek where she could still feel the lingering touch of his hot lips. "...Sure."

* * *

The next day, Sherlock called in the cavalry. After their workday, Mary and John, with their daughter in tow, dutifully appeared at Baker Street to help the consultant detective figure out the importance of the dead MI6-agent.

The couple sat in the low sofa and watched the great detective pace restlessly to and fro in the living room, with the excited Elizabeth in his supportive arms. Each time he spun to pace the other way, the little girl gurgled happily, but the child's joy seemed lost on the detective who seemed miles away in the basement of his mind palace.

Irene sat by the laptop and after another second exhaled in dismay. "Based on this map, the only locations the killer could have used for the shot are in the apartment building opposite."

Sherlock glared down at her with the dissatisfaction of a lost man denied a path in life. "Calculating the distance between the killer and the victim as well as the angle of the shot means that the shooter must have been in the apartment _straight across_ the road. The other ones in that house are insignificant, but _now we know_."

John hesitantly leaned forward in the sofa and cleared his throat as he tried to join in on the fun, "You've checked the place though, right? Did you find anything in the flat straight across?"

"Not a single clue," the consultant detective exhaled in deflation and exchanged a glance with his goddaughter.

"An expert, then," Mary quipped from her own seat. "If there's no evidence to be found, the work is likely by a career assassin. Trained to be untraceable."

"Precisely my line of thinking," the tall detective purred in agreement. "But if it's a professional, why did the killer fail to hit the victim's heart when aiming so plainly for the middle of the chest?"

"It still was a killing shot, wasn't it?" the fair woman countered with a knowing grin. "It's a bit romanticized to shoot someone in the heart."

The blond man glanced from his wife and back to his best friend, but opted out of _that_ conversation. Instead, he refocused their attention, "What about the bullet?"

Sherlock waved the suggestion off like an annoying fly as he started to pace the length of the room again. The baby's laughter nearly drowned out the man's voice as he explained, "The ballistics tests aren't done on the bullet yet. I have to wait another couple of days to give it to Molly. But I agree: there's something about that bullet that could answer the mystery."

"... And you think this case could help explain your brother's behavior?" the doctor asked in plain hesitance, brave enough to ask the question that burned on all of their minds. "Exactly what problem do you think he's facing? Something dangerous?"

"Oh yes, John," the other man cooed in a deep voice that seemed taken straight from a twisted fairy tale. "_Cataclysmic_, in fact."

"Well, isn't that _great_," the blond man sighed and his wife affectionately stroked his back to soothe him. He squeezed her knee in a quiet, subtle thanks.

"It is, isn't it?" Sherlock grinned without missing a beat, but entirely missing the sarcasm.

"Hold on," the brunette raised her voice as she squinted down at something on the computer screen. "The victim's father just made a public statement. Charles Barrow. Apparently he's the Minister of Overseas Development."

"Did he say anything useful to us?"

Irene merely sighed. "It seems he hasn't talked to his daughter for years. Shame, really. Makes you wish people called home to their folks more often. It would certainly leave us more clues."

"… Do you include yourself in that statement?"

The woman faltered and her gaze flew up to meet her partner's at once, plainly raising her alert to the highest level. "_Oh_, I thought we were busy trying to solve the case here..."

"_We are_," the man concurred as his eyes darkened with fascination and he effectively claimed the role of hunter instead of huntee, "but we've got a minute and I might as well do the best of it."

"In other words; you want to test your deducing skills on something other than the case, to get yourself in the right mind set? Do we _actually_ have a minute for your detour?"

"She's got a point," John interrupted from where he was parked on the side lines. "We don't really have time to do this now, Sherlock. If you're right and Mycroft's facing something dangerous, we ought to focus on that first. Don't you think?"

"Alright, let _Elizabeth_ decide! What do you think, Goddaughter; deducing about _The woman_ for a minute wouldn't interrupt the game, would it?" the baby giggled and drooled in response. Sherlock flashed his friends a horrifically wide grin and then nodded his head towards the blonde girl as if she was both judge and jury. "There you have it."

The doctor sighed in defeat as he leaned back wearily and closed his eyes tight. Whatever he wanted to shut out, evidently failed. "She doesn't understand a word, you know. Of course she's happy when you make that silly voice. You're her _favorite_ _person_, Sherlock! ...Frankly, I find that somewhat alarming."

"You knew what you were getting yourselves into when you made me godfather," the man said dismissively as he walked towards the married couple. He dumped the baby in her mother's arm with a blunt, "Here, take this."

Free of his charge, he swirled around to face Irene. The beautiful woman looked anything but pleased with the sudden turn of events and sat stiff as a board in her chair. Despite the dismay she attempted to hide, it was plain she was in no way going to be cornered. Though it seemed she was willing to admit he was the hunter, she wasn't as willing to see herself as prey.

With a deceivingly calm voice, the great detective beckoned, "Tell me."

"Tell you what?" the woman questioned wearily.

"About your connection to your parents. I know your present life well enough, but not much about your past. Only thing I know, beside your dominating business, is that you're divorced, and that's not a trump card, I imagine?"

"That was a bit harsh, Sherlock..." Mary frowned as she held the dismayed child, but her words fell on deaf ears.

Meanwhile, Irene had collected herself and rose from the chair as a cobra prepared to strike. Offensively, she struck a fast blow, "It's rather more fun watching you squirm over something you haven't figured out. _Impress a girl_… if you can."

"Have it your way!" the detective sealed the deal as he leaned close to investigate. "A father's girl, I believe. When you were a child and a young woman, you were a devoted daughter to him. But you've drifted apart. You never got along with your mother. Was she too strict?"

The woman smiled smugly and there were no holes in her steely armor. "Wouldn't know. She died in childbirth."

Sherlock took the offered bait, "An only child then?"

"_Maybe_... Then again, maybe not," Irene retorted swiftly with a playful tone of voice. "Mother used to tell say she always wished for three girls. No boys."

"Whoa… Hold on," John closed his eyes tight as he tried to follow the speedy exchange of dialogue. He hadn't wanted to get involved with this particular mind fuck, but somehow found himself at least half as curious as his best friend. "You said your mother died in childbirth…?"

"I did, didn't I?"

Beside her, the detective leered in amusement as he stretched to his full height and glanced over at the seated man. The latter looked as if someone had sucker punched his brain, and eventually he sighed exasperatedly, "Is _any_ of it true?"

Irene shrugged and winked at her blond friend, "Some of it."

"Which part?"

"Well…" the brunette cooed and seemed confident she'd regained possession of the upper hand. "I had a mother and a father."

John glared across the room at the woman as he pointedly growled, "_Everyone_ has parents; that's not admitting anything."

"Actually, it is," Sherlock interrupted and his voice was smooth and sharp at the same time. With a few simple words, he stole the trump and stripped Irene bare to the world for the briefest of moments. "She said '_had'_. Past-tense. They're obviously deceased. Now we're getting somewhere…"

The woman's smirk visibly faded as she realized she'd slipped up, but she recovered seamlessly and said, "That's well and all, but we've still gotten _nowhere_ on the case."

The detective grunted as he lost his guiding thread in the intricate maze. "Need you remind me?"

"Apparently I do. _Focus_, Sherlock."

"_Argh_!" the man rumbled like a caged bear and slammed his palms down on the desk, as his last sliver of patience left his body. His computer shifted and a few papers fell to the ground by the sudden jolt against the wood. "I can't solve it! What am I missing?! Come on, _think!_"

Happy to no longer be the center of his game, Irene confidently tugged on his arm until he sat down on the short end of the desk. With dark, flirtatious features, she moved to stand between his long legs and forced his angered, hurricane eyes to meet the calm storm in her own.

"Close your eyes, Sherlock. _Do it_. Filter me out entirely and go back into your mind palace."

Frustrated, the man shrugged out of her tender grasp and crossed his arms over his muscular chest like an overgrown child. "It's no use! I've tried it already! All I see in there is _you_, in your battle dress. Leering at me as if you have all the answers."

"_Battle dress?_" Mary whispered into her husband's ear.

"I'll tell you later," the man promised and then hurriedly reneged, "Actually, I probably shouldn't."

Unaware of the married couple's dialogue, Irene lingered close to her man and cooed, "So... I'm in your mind palace, am I?"

"_You're the queen of it_!" Sherlock spat in disgust without properly reflecting on his chosen words. His gaze remained cast low as he refused to gaze up from his pit of martyrdom.

The woman's bright smile vanished quickly and left not a trace of joviality in its splendid wake.

She felt the hairs on the nape of her neck rise and she was suddenly terrified for no good reason at all. She watched the man before her as if he was slowly growing smaller in the distance. As his attention was consumed by himself and the world around him seemed to matter less, Sherlock was completely oblivious to the game changing realization in his partner's mind.

For the first time, Irene realized the possibility that they had already fallen over the edge of the chasm. For a single, fleeting moment, the rest of the world faded from existence as she recalled those harsh, faithful words he had spoken to her so long ago.

_This is your heart, and you should never let it rule your head_.

* * *

_To be continued._


	8. Thy Kingdom Come

_Disclaimer: I do not own anything affiliated to Sherlock Holmes (unfortunately). Wish I did, though, but wishing isn't enough, is it?_

* * *

**Chapter 8: Thy Kingdom Come **

As John climbed the stairs to his old flat, raised voices floated down to him from inside 221 B. For a second, his mind raised to alert before he realized he could only hear Irene and Sherlock's voices. He wasn't sure whether to rush to aid, or give the couple some space to vent. His daughter gurgled word-like sounds and wriggled uncomfortably in the baby carrier on his front, as if she could sense the tension that lingered in the flat.

On hesitant legs, the doctor climbed the last few steps and entered the war zone with one final, brave intake of oxygen.

"I said: _drop it!_" Irene snarled. The woman stood behind one of the armchairs, leaned forwards as if prepared to strike a killing blow at any second. She seemed vicious and in control as she glared down at her prey. Opposite her, Sherlock reclined in his armchair and looked far more at ease with the situation.

"It was a reasonable observation!" the curly-haired man spat in a mocking tune. Something was off about his voice, though. The man slurred thickly as if attempting to speak beneath water and his mannerisms seemed quite drunk (or perhaps more accurately: _high_). John frowned in silent reprimand from his unnoticed position. If this was about drugs - _so help me God! - _ the blond man would tear his friend to pieces if the woman didn't.

"_No, it wasn't!_"

"Then why are you-"

"You're the clever detective: _deduce!_" the brunette hissed and John realized it was the first time he'd seen the poised woman so frustrated. He'd seen her fire before, but never in well-guarded anger such as this. The only thing that popped to mind which he could compare it to, was her brief loss of control after shooting _Hazaar_ in Ireland. She'd been the cornered beast then, and perhaps she wasn't as in control now as she had seemed at first glance. The woman concluded, "I'm going out for a while. Don't you _dare_ follow me!"

Sherlock chortled humorlessly as he remained slumped over in his armchair and his slurred sentence sounded like one long word, "That would be difficult since you laced my tea with muscle relaxants! … Clever, by the way."

The woman grinned coldly and her bright flames went out with the chill that suddenly invaded the flat. Without another word, she turned towards the open door and threw on her pale trench coat. Before the guest could say anything the woman stormed past him like a graceful swan in flight. Brusquely, she said, "Goodbye, John!"

After Irene had fled the battlefield, the blond man opened and closed his mouth a couple of times while he blinked in plain confusion.

"Is this a bad time…?" he managed at length. "You _did_ know I was coming by to drop Elizabeth off? I didn't just imagine that you agreed to it last week?"

"You and Mary need some time together as a couple. I remember," the detective slurred and his head leaned heavily against the backrest as he sunk further into his chair. It seemed he had been using all his energy to seem in control of his body while the brunette had been present, but his drugged muscles simply couldn't uphold the facade anymore. "… In _The woman'_s defense, I was going to follow her. But only because I can't leave that task to my homeless network. Tried it once, she caught on to it straight away. Not like you."

"… Eh, okay," the blond man said as he put down the bag of baby items and then stepped further onto the battlefield to check the casualties. "So… what was your argument about?"

The man's shoulders twitched in what John assumed was a shrug. "I'm not sure."

"Honeymoon's over, is it?"

"This wasn't our first fight," the man huffed and something indescribable flashed by in his tired eyes. "Only the first one I can't understand."

"_Huh_..." was all that the blond man managed as he considered his friend's explanation. It wasn't much, but a small glimpse into the wondrous, Asperger-ish world he would never entirely understand.

Sherlock squinted and managed to push himself up in the leather armchair an inch as he dryly muttered, "You're doing it again."

"Doing what?" John asked as he sank into his old, worn armchair and glanced down at the sleeping baby. How she'd managed to fall asleep in the middle of all this, he had no idea.

"Expecting us to behave like a 'normal couple'."

"No, _no_," the man disagreed as he searched for the right words, "If you ever behaved 'normal', I would know for sure I'd fallen down the rabbit's hole."

The curly-haired man's clouded eyes shone with pure dismay. "…There's a cultural reference there I'm not getting, isn't there?"

John blinked once. "Remind me to read the classics to both you and Elizabeth when the time comes for it… How long before the muscle relaxant stops working? I got to meet Mary in fifteen."

"Five minutes, I think," the man said while he attempted to turn his stoic head to gaze up at the clock on the mantelpiece.

The doctor couldn't quite drop the amusing subject and decided to press for more. The fact that the topic always seemed to make his best friend squirm was something of a bonus. "Did you miss something? Some important date, perhaps?"

Sherlock frowned in cruel amusement. "_The woman_? Doubtful, don't you agree?"

"Then here's a suggestion; _Ask_ her what's wrong."

"I don't want to."

"Why not?"

The other man merely grimaced, "Do you think that... _you_ could possibly inquire?"

John's gaze was blank for a couple of seconds as he looked at his drugged friend. He inhaled slowly, "You're making this _a lot_ more intricate than it is, you know. But... I suppose I could ask. I don't expect her to be very chatty about it, though."

"_Me neither,_" Sherlock drawled and managed to scoot up to a seated position. He slowly rolled his shoulders and stretched like a cat after a long, comfortable nap.

"Feeling better? Can I _please _go have a one on one with my dear wife for a change?"

The detective inclined his head and extended an expectant arm. A rare kindness shone in his bright pools as he gazed at the snoozing baby girl before him. "Yes, yes. Hand me my goddaughter, please, and _go_. Have fun with Mary. We'll be fine. I thought I'd run a few cases by Elizabeth tonight. She's the best listener I've got."

* * *

The next day, John, Mary and Irene watched the impatient detective tap his long fingers against the steel table over and over as he glared down at the specialist registrar in the laboratory at St Bart's. He looked like a statue as he leaned over the table: cold, stern and silent in his straight posture. Molly, in turn, was bent over the microscope and paid him little heed.

"I'm not sure, Sherlock," she said and pushed back her chair to give the man access. "I'm not a ballistics expert."

"_I_ am," the man's low drawl was laser sharp as he bent over to behold the mystic clues the microscope revealed to the naked eye.

Molly exchanged a glance with the others as she gently exhaled, "It's a revolver bullet. That much I know."

"… but it wasn't fired by a revolver, was it?" the detective breathed with an air of tedious fatigue of being surrounded by lesser intelligence. He didn't even bother looking up from the microscope as he hurriedly explained, "It's a soft-point bullet that doesn't showcase the original markings you'd find if this had exited a revolver mouth."

"What then?" John questioned as he crossed his arms over his chest, highly aware of the deductions that would follow now that the floodgate had opened up.

Sherlock leaned back in the swirling chair with one fluid motion and closed his eyes tight. Without offering a reply, they all watched him descend into his mind palace where they could not follow. To them, what he did in there showcased itself in the real world as a sharp, alacritous dance. They all knew the man well enough to understand the importance of this particular tactic, however, and so simply waited for him to finish.

Sherlock swished his arms back and forth, shook his head fervently a few times and then his eyes shot wide open as he breathed, "_An air-gun_."

Irene's heels clicked against the floor as she stepped towards him like a moth drawn to a burning wick. Her strong features, illuminated by the frigid lights in the sterile room, portrayed a glimmer of hesitance. "Are you certain of that?"

"Look for yourself," the man waved his partner to the microscope as he rushed to explain to his audience, "Firearms use a propellant charge that leaves distinct scratches on the bullet but there are none on _this_ one. A _uniquely_ _designed_ air-gun could, on the other hand, leave other marks. The air-gun propels the projectiles with the use of compressed air or gas and therefore leaves-"

Irene interrupted the man in a grim voice as she looked up, "That's Moran's signature."

The detective stopped with his arms mid-air, just about to conclude his findings, when his brain registered her words. The light in his eyes diminished with doubt as he slowly turned to gaze down at the woman.

"… _Sorry_?" the man's voice dripped with agitation, like hot, melted wax down the length of a candle.

"An air-gun that fires revolver bullets. Lord Sebastian Moran-"

"_I know who he is_!" Sherlock hissed. "The former Minister of Overseas Development. John and I busted the terrorist attack that he and his Underground network were planning a year ago."

From his stance next to his wife, John joined the conversation on a weary breath, "He was sentenced to 25 years. It's not _possible_ it's Lord Moran..."

"No," Irene's bold voice rose an octave as she challenged the men's conviction with deadly accuracy. She backed up next to the woman in a lab coat and said, "It's _improbable_, but not impossible. What Sherlock described _is_ Moran's signature."

"Then you're wrong. I know everything of importance about the good Lord," the great detective argued as he followed her in the dark waltz of deduction and wit. As a child stubborn to prove he's right, the man didn't hold anything back, "He has a background in the military – The Bangalore Pioneers, to be exact - but retired early. There are no official reports, but I believe he proved himself less than honorable already in the military. Hereditary trait, I'm afraid. He returned to London to pursue his political career and soon rose to his Minister position. He was outwardly respectable, held a considerable fortune and had a respectable address on Conduit St. Mayfair. Evidently, he was also a terrorist with big plans for this country and an ally to North Korea... As I said; _hereditary traits_. He's a smart, very dangerous man. Unfortunately for him, _I'm_ smarter. He was a terrorist. If he was also an assassin, I would have known _that_."

"Everything then," the woman acquiesced as the orbs to her soul flashed with stubborn conviction and she raised her chin high. "… _except _that he worked for Moriarty."

The lab was overflowed by a taut silence that seemed intent to drown them all in its bottomless depths. The other three watched in mute confusion as Sherlock blinked repeatedly. The unaccustomed reaction of their friend threw them all off-balance in the precarious scale of justice he'd been balancing them in.

"No, he didn't..." the man breathed. He fixed his partner with an impassive look and commanded, "_Tell me_."

"I learned about it when I worked with Moriarty," Irene revealed and it was her time to step into the spotlight and she did so with a tigress' grin. "Apparently their cooperation started almost a decade ago. Back then, Moriarty only used him in high-class jobs that no other criminal would undertake. But when Moran pursued a political career, he put aside his gun and only did business with the consultant criminal without ever meeting in person. It was safer for his political reputation. I found out about it because Moran once visited my home in Belgravia under the disguise of being a client, only to supply me with Intel from Moriarty about _you_."

The curly-haired man processed the new information with incredible speed and he couldn't hide the disappointment that lurked in his eyes. As if the words pained him physically, the man reluctantly agreed, "...He was the missing link. Moran was Moriarty's voice to the government officials, and how the consultant criminal controlled them all. How did I miss it…?"

Molly shrugged encouragingly as she offered, "It makes no difference, Sherlock. Greg alw-"

"It makes _all _the difference!" the man growled like a cornered wild animal.

"_Only to you_!" Irene said with equal force and the man's head whipped in her direction. "Could we - please - _focus_ on this case?"

Childishly, Sherlock rolled his eyes. "If we must!"

"Incorrigible man!" the brunette sighed and seemed willing to punch the stubborn detective. She clenched her fist by her side where it remained tense and unsatisfied as she spoke in slow agitation, "This isn't about _you_ or your _bruised ego._"

The man swiftly retorted with words that served as a verbal slap, "And it's _definitely_ _not_ about whatever sentimental notion regarding me that you're upset over."

John took a step towards the table and cleared his throat, hoping he would diffuse whatever bomb that was clearly about to explode in the laboratory. When neither Sherlock nor Irene turned to him, the blond man interceded anyway, "What about Moran then?"

Behind him, Mary picked her phone out of her pocket and did a quick search. "According to the web, the man is still in prison."

The woman and the detective kept glowering at each other while the others considered ducking behind the tables for protection. Eventually, Sherlock lowered his furious gaze and exhaled deeply through his nose.

"_No, he isn't_," the man said in a mad, rumbling tone.

"How can Lord Moran be both in prison _and_ released?" Molly questioned with a trepid frown on her fair features.

Sherlock glanced down at the former dominatrix and dejectedly said, "He's not in prison, my brother's released him."

* * *

Standing on the banks across from the Parliament, Sherlock glanced out at the old, impressive building that concealed so many secret and such a harrowing history. He allowed his eyes to travel a little further, to the bell tower that was still undergoing repairs after Moriarty's last games. The man only allowed his mind a second to linger on that particular memory, before he buried it deep within his mental vaults. Instead he focused on the different sounds around the Thames and the people - families, couples, dogs - that made up normal life in London's hectic inner city.

His private musings were cut short as he heard a dry, familiar voice approach, "What's this about, baby brother? You know I prefer to meet on my own turf."

The curly-haired man turned to his coat-clad brother as the older Holmes came to a halt beside the younger. "Limitations are for the weak-minded, as you are aware, Mycroft."

"Or for the comfortable."

Sherlock grimaced unkindly. "The same, don't you agree?"

Mycroft refrained from rolling his eyes. "What do you want? I thought we'd settled all our business last time?"

"You're astutely aware I wasn't satisfied at all with your _lack_ of answers."

"_Dear Lord_… Is it to be a guessing game then?" the older Holmes raised a stoic eyebrow. "I don't have time for-"

The detective gazed straight ahead as he interrupted his kin, "I brought you here to look at our Parliament, brother. Isn't it an impressive building? And by that, I mean that it's _impressive_ that it still stands there calmly on the banks of the river, despite what nearly transpired a year ago."

He knew his message had hit home as Mycroft raised his chin and used his umbrella to point at the other landmark before them. "…Why don't you glance a little further, Sherlock, and remember your own involvement in Big Ben's demolition. Ring a bell?"

"Oh, word play. How _fun_ you are," the younger man drawled impassively and re-routed them back to the topic he preferred, "Speaking of explosives and fire… Do you 'remember, remember, the fifth of Nov-"

"So you know Moran is released from jail," Mycroft acquiesced harshly at last and turned to his brother instead of their catching game. "You're slipping. I was expecting this confrontation _weeks_ ago."

Sherlock ignored the berating as he simply questioned, "When did it happen?"

"…August."

"Why?"

"Classified, I'm afraid."

The detective shoved his hands into his coat pockets and glared up at his brother. "You're telling me you clandestinely released one of England's most dangerous criminals and didn't even think to notify the man who got him arrested and saved everyone's lives?"

The government official inclined his head stubbornly as something flashed by in his pale eyes. "Yes, that's what I'm saying."

"Do you have _any_ idea what you've done?" the younger man's voice vibrated menacingly on the cold air.

"I had no choice, Sherlock."

"I would have found you a choice if you'd only notified me beforehand."

A faint smile appeared on the corner of Mycroft's thin lips as his mocking gaze glared his brother down. Secrets were securely locked within the man's eyes, but Sherlock knew of no key to access them. "No… you wouldn't have."

The curly-haired man frowned. "Why?"

"Drop it, brother."

"You know I won't."

"_Drop it_."

"_No_," the younger brother stubbornly persisted as a raw, eastern wind managed to penetrate the thick defense of his coat and left him shivering in the autumn afternoon. "Not until you tell me what I need to know."

"You _need_ to know nothing, but _want_ to know it all," Mycroft berated in brotherly irritation and then exhaled with great composure. "Trust me, Sherlock, it's better you know _nothing_."

"He'll strike again," the detective lowered his rumbling voice. "He already has; one of your MI6 agents was found dead with a bullet matching Moran's signature. I imagine you and your peers have realized the depths of your screw up by now?"

For a few seconds, the two men merely glared at each other across the divide that had always existed between them. At length, Mycroft sighed. "What do you expect me to say to that, Sherlock?"

"_The truth,_" the young man suggested ruthlessly and pushed onward. "Someone's _pressuring_ you, aren't they? A power game, is it, against you and the government? … Who is it?"

"No one," the older man persisted stone-coldly and offered no clue or hint on how to allude his defenses and reach the safeguarded information.

He knew they'd reached an impasse, but, as always, Sherlock refused to surrender. "Who benefits from Moran's release?"

"You're the detective. You tell me."

"Surely it's not the Americans," the younger man huffed. "Is it his North Korean allies?"

The older man merely rolled his eyes in reply. He then turned to walk away with a simple, "Goodbye, brother."

"It is, isn't it? …_Mycroft_? Mycroft!"

* * *

Only a few days later, in the height of autumn's bleak embrace, Sherlock received a wondrous tip from his homeless network. It had been a simple text, but with a very important photograph attached to it. It had depicted Lord Moran carrying a suspicious looking case walking into a grand house in Hampstead. After a quick search, the detective realized that the house opposite belonged to no other than Mr Charles Barrow, the father of the dead MI6-agent and an important political figure in the grand scheme of things.

It hadn't taken the full five seconds to realize what all of the signs were pointing to: There was to be another murder. _Today_. And a splendid opportunity to catch the man in the act, bringing him down once and for all.

The detective knew it was a long shot that they'd get Moran and though he'd concocted a clever plan, Sherlock knew he'd need a back-up in case it didn't work. A Plan B... and potentially a Plan C, depending on how trigger happy the good Lord was. He wanted John with him for this one, and so decided to let Irene run a watchtower in their flat, being his eyes and ears. If anyone could find him that other opportunity at a moment's notice, he knew it was her.

Needless to say, time was of the essence and everything was a state of chaotic order at Baker Street as preparations were well underway. It was into this world of mayhem that Molly entered. The young woman paused on the threshold to the living room and watched the chaos unravel.

Over by the fireplace, the scientist saw the married couple help prepare the former army doctor for a swift departure.

Mary loaded a gun with an expert twist of the wrist before she handed him the weapon. She touched his face tenderly as she breathed, "Be careful out there, John."

"Yeah, well... Be careful _in here_," the doctor retorted with an impish grin that in no way belittled the anxious twinkle in his conscious eyes.

By the desk in the very heart of the room, Sherlock and Irene were setting up several laptops for the occasion. The detective were giving the woman whispered instructions as he pointed to something on the main screen. Certain that _The woman_ had it all under control, the tall man glanced back and noticed the latest addition to their exclusive group.

"Ah, Molly," he breathed enthusiastically as he reached for his coat that hung over the back of a chair, "You made it just in time!"

The woman nodded as the man pulled her inside his lair, "W-what's going on? I got your text. 'Man the battle station'… Whu-?"

The man patted her shoulder in reassurance and interrupted her, his voice faster than a speeding bullet, "There's no time to explain. You and Mary stay with Irene, follow her instructions. John and I are going after Moran. After Moriarty and Magnussen, Moran is certainly the most dangerous man in England and the odds are stacked against us, meaning we're most likely putting ourselves at mortal risk!"

From her seat, Irene muttered, "… It's my birthday."

Sherlock positively beamed down at her as he inaccurately interpreted the meaning of her words, "I knew _you'd_ feel the sa- Oh... _Oh._ Well, I can think of no better gift than to bring down a dangerous criminal! John, come on! _Laterz_!"

Wasting not another second at Baker Street, the two men dashed down the stairs and out of the building in quite the hurry. As the room quietened, Mary glanced at the empty doorway and at length turned back to the brunette behind the screens. Irene's shoulders were stiff and a dim light faded in her eyes as she gazed out the window at the taxi that was already a small, dark speck on the horizon, transporting the detective and his blogger far from them.

"… He doesn't know," the blond woman breathed and her compassionate voice was full of shock and amazement. Her eyes connected with the more timid reaction of Molly, who smiled cautiously, before once more settling on Irene. "He actually _doesn't know_…_Wow!_ How's that even possible? And he hasn't seen the...?"

The ex-dominatrix showed no emotion on her porcelain doll-like features. "Not this time."

Molly pulled up a seat beside her friend and scooted close. With unquestionable concern, she asked, "And you won't tell him?"

"Not yet," the brunette replied and met her friends' curious gazes with a reassuring smile. "Let's get to work, ladies."

* * *

At the northern edges of Hampstead Heath, between the luxury of the upper class and the serenity of the woods, Sherlock and John soon exited the Hackney carriage and gazed at the lavish houses around them. The car had parked just around the corner of one of the buildings, out of sight from the Barrow residence and the house across from it. There was no way Moran would be able to see them from this spot.

"Could you linger just a minute?" John asked the driver and the man nodded in affirmation. Satisfied with that, the blond man walked over to the tall detective. The man's cloak fluttered in the breeze around his long legs and he stoically gazed at the buildings, his eyes already miles ahead of them.

"_That_ is Mr Barrow's mansion," Sherlock pointed out one of the grandest houses to his best friend, as the latter silently stopped beside him. "Judging by his previous executions and the info from Irene, the only house Moran could be setting up his weapon is in the brick house next to it."

"Are you sure we shouldn't wait for Lestrade?" John questioned. His heart skipped a beat, ready to feel the surge of adrenaline pump through his veins as it always did with a good adventure. At the same time, he couldn't help the bad feeling he had about this plan. "You don't… think we're walking into a trap, do you?"

"I'm certain we are," the detective hummed and exchanged a glance with his friend. As the shorter man processed this, Sherlock casually turned to wave the taxi driver off. He watched as the car jumped to life and slowly started to roll down the road once more

John nodded feebly. "...Okay. What are we _actually_ facing here, Sherlock? He's not just killing random victims, is he?"

The detective opened his mouth to reply, but before he could say a word, his phone rang and he answered it swiftly, "Lestrade? Are you on your way? John and I will enter the building now, either wa-"

"_Sherlock_, Oh my God… Is Molly with you?" the police man's voice was hectic and trembling, like a shaking leaf in the wind.

The detective frowned as he focused all attention on the frail voice. "What do you mean?"

"We just received an anonymous tip that your friends were in mortal danger, Sherlock. Are you still at Hampstead? _Is Molly with you?!_"

"None of them are here, they're all at- John, call the taxi back! Lestrade, send your men to Baker Street! _At once!"_

"On it! I'll call you back if the anonymous caller rings back. He said he had more news."

Sherlock hung up and hurriedly sped across the green lawns, with John close behind, and managed to intercept the taxi just in time. They jumped into the backseat and ordered their new route. Sherlock promised the man a hefty bonus if he hit full speed. As they swished off towards the center of town again, John leaned back, his breathing erratic. The man reached for his phone and tried to call his wife as his fingers trembled across the phone's keyboard. There was no answer. He tried Irene's phone, but met the same disconnected signal.

The Hackney carriage was the only blur of color in the otherwise bland afternoon as it rushed past people in their everyday life. People completely unaware of the tense conversation in the back of the cab that sped past. Though the distance to Baker Street wasn't too long, it had never felt longer in either Sherlock or John's lives.

As the detective's phone rang again, everything turned from bland to darkest shadow in Sherlock's mind. It was Moran's calm voice that played on his heartstrings. The detective focused as never before when he argued with the man to leave his friends alone, but all his efforts seemed to no avail.

Moran's voice was once more strong and teasing on the line, as he asked, "Who should it be, Mr Holmes? _Hmm_? The charming wife, the sexy partner or perhaps the most loyal friend? You choose."

"Listen to me, Moran. I'm almost there," Sherlock implored with a dangerously calm tone of voice. In his pale eyes was a whirlwind of rage, but his outside demeanor remained impassive even as he made a deal with the devil's henchman. "You can take _me _down when I come. Don't do this. _Don't_-"

The voice that interrupted him was deceivingly collected, "That was a rhetorical question. You see, I already have my orders on which woman to kill. Orders from the highest level…"

As the Hackney Carriage ran a corner with impressive speed, nearly crashing into another car, Sherlock glanced out the window at the street sign that flashed by in a blur. As he recognized it, he shouted into the phone, "_Moran_! We're just a minute from Baker Street-"

"I'm sorry, Mr Holmes..."

_Bang_.

Sherlock flinched away from the sound as the sudden, loud noise echoed in a flash on the other end of the line. The curly-haired man exchanged a glance with his friend before pressing his ear to the phone once more. Slowly, he wet his lips and asked, "...Mr Moran?"

"... She's already gone."

With those parting words, the phone went dead in the detective's gloved hand.

* * *

_To be continued…_


	9. The End Is Always Near

_Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock Holmes, John Watson or any other character affiliated to Arthur Conan Doyle's wondrous world that was the basis for BBC's 'Sherlock'._

_I think it's safe to say now that we've come this far, that this story is mainly inspired Conan Doyle's by 'The Empty House' (so far, at least...). Thought I'd mention it, in case someone wants to go back to the source itself. _

_A/N: In Sherlock's Woman, Moriarty stabbed Irene and blew up Big Ben in Chapter 8. In the eight chapter of this story; Lord Moran shot… Well, you'll just have to read for yourselves. _

* * *

**Chapter 9: The End Is Always Near**

When Sherlock and John barged through the front door to 221 B, the whole world seemed to have stopped rotating in anticipation of the inevitable. Time was simply unnaturally slow as they approached the crescendo, running on heavy legs as though through thick sand.

All the great detective heard as he reached the top of the stairs was the sound of his own erratic heartbeat, pulsating like a wild storm on the sea. Both men stopped in the open doorway as they gazed into the crime scene that was all too close to heart.

There was a small hole in one of the windows, letting in could, eerie air to remind them of a harsh reality. The hole was so small, it was hardly noticeable, but its significance was all the harder to ignore.

The silent chaos in the room left a palpable tension in the air that carried such a bitter aftertaste. On the ground by the armchairs, two of the women sat hunched over the third. Closest to the exit was the blonde, who was also the only one to react as the men reappeared. She stumbled from her seated position and so cleared their view to behold the dark scenery.

Mary's eyes danced with tears as she flew into her husband's waiting arms. She explained that she'd called for an ambulance already and was doing all she could to help. Her words, however, seemed to Sherlock to come from the end of a long tunnel as he glared down at the revealed horror before him.

Partially covered in blood splatter and tears, Irene was leaning over her friend. The ex-dominatrix's erratic movements was all the detective needed to learn the severity of the situation. Her hands trembled as she pressed some fabric to Molly Hooper's pale temple. The cloth was covered in the red, deceiving liquid that made it all so undeniably real. The blood meant only one thing to Sherlock: _He had failed_.

For another excruciating second, the tall man gazed down at the wounded woman. Her face was almost translucent under the lamps and her form ghastly still. She seemed to him as if lying at the bottom of a tomb already. The only color on her pale skin was the red splatter across her porcelain cheeks and forehead, smeared by her friend's shaking hands.

The detective pulled himself from his reverie as he breathed a simple, "_John_."

The doctor jumped back to reality with the simple, helpful reminder of his friend. He checked his wife over one last time, before he flew forward to aid. John knelt down by the injured woman and tried to coax Irene's hands away from the wound, but she seemed unable to hear a word he said. Sherlock coldly stepped over and tugged on his partner's shoulders. She had to move out of the way. He needed his best friend to save a life.

"Gunshot wound to the head. She's lost a lot of blood…" the blond man muttered to himself as he quickly set to work, his own feelings suppressed behind a veneer of professionalism.

Irene's long nails dug into the fabric of Sherlock's sleeve and he heard her uneven breathing as she huddled closer to his tall shape. The man gritted his teeth as he forced himself not to feel anything, but his eyes never once wavered from Molly's unconscious face. He barely had time to collect himself as he heard commotion from the stairs.

Two paramedics clad in bright, yellow jackets rushed inside and with level heads managed to get a good overview of the situation. The detective opened his mouth to explain what had happened, but no words came out. Instead, he merely watched as they ran over to their patient.

Seamlessly, they took over and John was forced to retire to his wife's side once more. The two clung to each other as if there was no tomorrow and no words of sorrow needed to be spoken aloud as they protected one another.

As Molly was lifted onto the stretcher and the EMT's moved towards the exit, the curly-haired man stepped forward as if pulled along on an invisible string.

In a frail, broken voice, he heard his partner whisper from across the chasm, "_Sherlock_…"

He glanced down at Irene's seated figure and saw the blood splatter across her face stand in stark contrast to her vibrant, horrified eyes. She covered her abdominal area with one arm as if in physical pain on top of her mental one. _Clear psychosomatic trauma,_ the man noted to himself. She clung even tighter to his sleeve, but Sherlock knew there was nothing he could do to help her. Without giving it much thought, he tugged his arm free and slipped from her grasp like a shadow in the disguise of night.

"I have to go with Molly," he simply offered in a tightly-strung voice.

He didn't look back a second time as he followed the paramedics down the stairs and out the door. He felt utterly useless, like a broken toy tossed in the garbage, as he watched the men in bright jackets load the injured woman into the back of the ambulance. The blinking lights on top of the ambulance didn't scream of salvation and aid, but rather danger and death, as the rest of the world fell victim to the emerging dusk.

The paramedics were almost done when two police cars swerved the curve up ahead and came to a screeching halt beside the man in his long, billowing cloak.

Greg jumped out of the driver seat of one of the cars and his face fell as he stumbled towards the ambulance. "M-my wife… Is that my wife?! _Molly!_ Is she…?"

Sherlock reached out towards the man and held him back with more force than he'd thought necessary. The grey-haired man struggled even as the detective offered in a monotonous tone, "I'm going with them, Lestrade. You should escort the ambulance to the hospital. It will be quicker."

"But I should-" the police man began as his dark gaze lingered on the woman at the back of the ambulance. His eyes were wide and with such bottomless grief that the sentiment nearly caught the detective in it's destructive grip.

"Do it," the taller man interrupted and swallowed slowly. "_Please_."

Greg ran a trembling hand across his weary face, as if this would erase the image of his dying wife, before he nodded and ran back to his car.

* * *

The rest of the evening chased those unhappy memories until their sharp edge was dulled to sentimental oblivion.

It was quite late when John exited the taxi and stepped onto the street outside 221 B again, after a short trip to his own home. He exhaled and closed his eyes tight as he recalled what had transpired here only hours earlier. He hadn't heard an update on Molly's condition for awhile, but knew she'd lost a lot of blood before they could get her into an OR… He simply wished he knew more about how she was doing. He wished he could have done more to help.

"_John_."

He pressed his phone closer to his ear, as he remembered himself and the conversation he'd been in the middle of just then. "_Sorry_…" he cleared his throat from the painful lump that threatened to give away his distracted mind. "I'm here now."

"Sherlock won't be."

The blond man sighed and the evening's chill bit into his cheeks, but he welcomed the aching sensation as he stepped towards the closed black door. He wasn't sure he could complete another coherent thought at the moment and closed his eyes again as he listened to Mycroft's impassive voice on the line.

"You know this has many signs of becoming a 'danger night', John."

The blond man ascended the stairs unhurriedly as he shook his head in sad irritation. Sometimes he wondered what cruel impassiveness truly fueled the older Holmes brother to order others around with no mercy or regard for their hearts. "Why the devil do you think I agreed to this? I know that and_ I'm on it_."

He hung up the phone without further ado and hesitated with one foot on the top step. He could see remnants of torn police tape at the corners of the doorpost. He knew Scotland Yard had worked fast and heard on the crime scene during the afternoon. They'd received no help from the clever detective, though, so who knew how much they'd actually collected of value. Still, he was glad they were gone now that he'd returned. He had noticed a police car at the end of the street when he'd arrived only minutes ago. It was a precautionary watch, he knew, simply for the night. There was no actual threat after the brutal, sudden shot that had split the air and taken them all by surprise. It still made him feel somewhat safer to know Irene and Sherlock had a guard for the night.

With a shaky breath that seemed to linger in the torn, fractured space around him, he entered his former flat. The entire place was bathed in an embrace of darkness, except for one lone lamp lit in the living room. Curious, he stepped inside the room and felt his heart sink to his feet at the sight before him.

_Oh,_ he thought to himself at the image, _this is definitely a 'danger night'._

In the leather arm chair, Irene lay curled up on her side, like a young child desperate for solace. Though her eyes seemed empty, her posture screamed of worn fatigue of having to hold her emotions at bay. Her long hair was still wet from a cleansing shower and she was wrapped tightly in the blue robe she'd more or less adopted. John had a good feeling that even though she was physically clean from the blood, her mind had not forgotten the smell, taste and feel of the liquid against her skin. He knew the look in her eyes only too well from his days in the military.

The woman's head lay on the armrest as she stared off into space with unblinking eyes, and somehow she managed to look weak and broken, but without losing the strong bravado she always wore close to her heart. Her mask had fallen slightly and revealed a few cracks to her fortress in the pale glow of the lamp.

John's throat closed up tight and he couldn't look away from her grieving figure. He swallowed heavily as he slowly stepped over towards her without a word. He knelt down beside the armchair on weary legs, unsure if she would allow him to enter her personal sphere.

Now that he came closer, he noticed that she was swirling the pendant of her looking glass-necklace in one hand, slowly back and forth, as a sort of meditation. Gently, he pried her other hand out from beneath her chin and grasped it within his own. He sighed in relief when she clenched it tight, allowing herself a friendly lifeline for a change. Her gaze never rose to meet his, but silent tears started to spill from her battle-worn eyes and John felt his own heart break at the sight.

They sat like that for a long time, quietly consoling each other with their presence, before the blond man felt strong enough to ask, "A-are you… Are you… okay?"

The woman merely nodded but seemed unable to voice the lie aloud.

"Where's Sherlock?" the man asked in a soft voice and hoped that the lonely woman could truly draw some comfort from his friendship. He didn't care that Irene's nails were digging painfully into his hand, making deep, blueish marks on his pale skin. All he wanted was to prove he would be there for her.

The brunette's voice crackled like sandpaper as she meekly said, "_Guess_."

* * *

"I thought I might find you here," Mycroft said as he walked into the morgue, letting the door slowly close behind him.

The sterile environment seemed to fit his younger brother perfectly for this occasion. The younger man, still clad in his coat and scarf, stood outside the autopsy room, wearing only stone-faced coldness on his strong features, as he glared out the window at the darkened world. He didn't turn or acknowledge his brother in any way as his shoulders remained firm and stoic.

Mycroft inhaled shortly and moved to his brother's side. He had come to offer him some comfort, but now that he was here - he wasn't sure how. Emotions had never been either of their strengths, after all. Neither was 'normal' reaction to the inevitable death that awaited them all. They'd faced death scares and fake suicides, but perhaps nothing quite like this. There had been no magic mirrors or tricks up the magician's sleeve this time around. Simply reality's cold shower.

"It's because of me," Sherlock's dark, vibrating voice filled the silent void suddenly. Though his voice had been next to a whisper, it seemed to resonate between the frigid walls as if shouted from the top of a mountain. The echo of the man's self-blame felt like a punch in the face to his older brother. The man's emotionless voice was stronger as he repeated, "Molly Hooper was shot because of me."

Mycroft sighed and reached into his coat pocket. He withdrew a small pack and held it out across the small divide that remained between them. "Cigarette?"

The man glanced down at the offer from the corner of his eyes. "Low tar?"

"Not this time."

"Good." Sherlock took a cigarette and his brother swiftly lit it for him. The tall, curly-haired man inhaled deeply and watched the smoke tendrils fade into nothingness before he opened his mouth again, "She's not dead, you know."

"_Oh?_"

"Comatose."

"I see," Mycroft exhaled unhappily. "…I should have bought low tar then."

"She was still shot _in the head_. She might never awaken," the younger man muttered as he once more put his mouth to the cigarette and inhaled as if desperately clinging to the nicotine's addictive embrace. "It's not a 'danger night', though, brother. You can sleep soundly knowing I'm more motivated than ever to find Moran and _kill_ him."

"Do you really think that's wise?" the older Holmes raised a tentative eyebrow and his eyes danced with emotions better left unspoken. "Let's not have a repeat of Magnussen, Sherlock. I can't protect you a second time."

"You won't have to."

"_Make sure I don't_."

* * *

It was closer to midnight when Sherlock's heavy feet carried him up the stairs to his flat. From the sharp scent that lingered in the air, he knew someone, probably _The woman_, had cleaned up after the near-death event. The empty living room was indeed tidied up and seemed so deceivingly undisturbed. Even his skull seemed polished to perfection where it rested on the mantelpiece, illuminated only partially by the glow of the lampposts outside.

Still, there were some things no amount of cleaning could ever remove. For example, every time he closed eyes, he saw Molly there, covered in blood and pale as death.

She had lived, but the knowledge alone didn't eliminate the bad memories. Molly wasn't safe yet, but she'd made it through the operation and it seemed she would pull through. If this meant she would one day open her eyes and escape the realm of her coma, Sherlock didn't know. When it came to questions about that, he was left as clueless as an ordinary person.

The man's eyes traveled across every inch of the room though he wasn't sure why. In the dark, he couldn't make out any clues, and his mind was too unfocused anyway to actually observe.

In the end, he turned towards his bedroom and saw the door wide ajar. The room was empty then. Much like he felt, at the moment. His gaze drifted to the staircase that led up to the spare bedroom (which he still often referred to it as 'John's bedroom'). He didn't need any clues to know _The woman _had chosen to sleep up there for reasons she would never share with him.

The man exhaled and was amazed to hear it echo with a trembling tune between the walls. Irene had chosen to close him out for the night, and he didn't blame her one bit. In fact, he was glad she'd opted to sleep in a separate bed, as he couldn't face anyone right now, least of all her. She was… Sherlock wasn't sure. But he couldn't handle it at the moment.

He ran a tired hand through his dark locks as the day finally caught up to him. He dragged his feet behind him as he entered his bedroom and shut the door, as if this would shut the door to the rest of the damn planet, too. It was a good thing this day was finally over. He couldn't wait to leave it in the past, where it belonged.

* * *

Two days after the fated events, the couple living at Baker Street had still barely spoken a word to each other, let alone spoken about the harrowing ordeal that still haunted them both.

Sherlock could plainly see _The woman_ was descending into some shady corner of her mind. He hadn't once tried to stop her even as he saw her slowly slip through his fingers. He didn't think much of it, however, as his mind only had room for the one mission: To avenge his friend. Moran would pay for what he had done to Molly; the sweet, innocent and important flower of hope that she was. Her light had been so close to being extinguished and the thought frightened the detective. He should have foreseen Moran's ingenious move. He was supposed to be brighter than this.

On this day, the detective had just returned home from watching over Molly in her coma. A broken Lestrade had sat quietly in the infirmary room beside his wife's bed, clutching her hand as if nothing else mattered outside their little sphere. Sherlock had chosen to watch from afar, letting the mourning husband have his much needed space.

The flat was quiet as he entered it, though he sensed that Irene was in fact at home. He could always tell when she was. Slowly, he walked into his bedroom and stopped short at the sight before him. The woman lay curled up on her side on the covers, with her back to the door. She was fast asleep from the looks of it, snuggled up comfortably in the blue dressing gown.

The man watched her for another long second before his gaze was drawn to something on the nightstand beside her. His mind registered the item and he flew forwards like a bolt of lightning across the skies. He rushed around the bed and grabbed the small medicine bottle. It was almost empty of its content - _sleeping pills_ - and Sherlock felt every inch of his body stiffen in anticipation of the worst.

He knelt by the woman and his movements turned from flowing gracefully to something hectic and sharp. He shook her shoulders with more force than necessary. "_Irene!_"

It took a couple of seconds, but her eyes flew open in tired surprise, like Sleeping beauty awakening from her cursed state. Sherlock gripped her shoulders as he forced her gaze to meet his. He waved the bottle in her face and demanded to know, "_How many have you taken?_"

"…What?" the brunette breathed and pushed away from his imploring grip.

"It's almost _empty_," he growled and his sharp eyes flew across her slim frame to read the signs. Her pupils weren't dilated and her breathing remained normal. Sherlock sighed and willed his heart to stand down from attention.

"It was _almost empty_ when Mary gave it to me! I haven't taken any pills. I didn't need any!" the woman retorted and turned from him to climb out of the bed. She turned to glare down at him, having safely escaped to where he couldn't catch her. "... Did you think I had actually OD'd?"

The man hesitated a beat as he slowly rose from the floor and eyed the small container in his hand. He wasn't sure what he'd expected, but was certain he had no clue how to explain his fervent actions. The bottle in his hand, however, seemed to contain the very secret he couldn't voice aloud.

"I'm not_ you_," Irene whispered as she crossed her arms over her chest.

Sherlock knew she'd hit the bull's eye with her short comment, and met her bold glare with a great measure of reluctance. The guarded look in her pale eyes intrigued him and with an irritated sigh, he growled, "You're hiding something from me that's not related to Molly being shot."

A distant grin spread on her thin lips and seemed a fragile mirror of her former glory. "You know the saying. Ask no questions-"

"-hear no lies," the curly-haired man finished and felt further removed from her than ever before, even though she was close enough to touch, to feel, to hold. The man clenched his jaw as he tried to read the true intention in her clear, hurt eyes, but came up short for answers.

"Oh, Sherlock..." the woman sighed as she closed herself further off. "If it was the end of the world, if this was the very last night... would you let me go?"

The curly-haired man scrunched up his features in confusion as he felt his thoughts pulled in different directions all at once, as if part of a cruel tug-of-war. He tried to clear his mind, but found his thoughts stray again and again as he beheld her. The question lingered in the air between them as Irene tilted her head to the side in silent anticipation. Sherlock didn't know what she wanted to hear and felt confusion fill his heart to the very brim. Eventually, he opened his mouth, but whatever he'd been about to say was cut short by another.

"_Sherlock_?" the voice of their landlady echoed from the staircase as the elder woman approached. "I thought you and Irene might like some tea?"

The woman exhaled in dry amusement and her grin turned into a cold leer. "... It's just Mrs Hudson."

With those words, Irene exited the room on brisk feet and left the detective alone to ponder the things he did not understand.

* * *

_To be continued…_


	10. Crossroads

_Disclaimer: I own nothing of this. But what's new, eh?_

_A/N; I just wanted to say a quick thank you to everyone who's reviewed this far, you're all very sweet! I'm very flattered you seem to like the story (so far, at least)! _

* * *

**Chapter 10: Crossroads**

"Have a look at this, John."

The army doctor flinched back as the detective pushed something up in his face. He warily accepted the small item as he sank into his old, chequered armchair. Mary reclined on the armrest beside him and the couple glared at the item in confusion. The mobile device was hardly bigger than an Iphone as it rested in the doctor's calloused hands, with three antennas sticking up at the top of the technical device.

"Is that a…?" the blonde began but her voice slowly faded into the shadows.

"A mobile phone jammer? _Yes_," Sherlock said as he paced across the living room. His maroon robe flowed around his long frame, desperate to keep up with the man's sharp turns. "I found it hidden in this room. Moran evidently had it planted in here, and that was why none of our calls came through on that day. You see, the use of cell phones is blocked as the device sends out radio signals-"

"I know how a jammer works..." John breathed and his face fell as he glared at the small object. "You're telling me _this _little thing… stopped us from preventing Molly getting shot four days ago? My God… Makes you want to wring the man's neck, doesn't it?"

In a feeble attempt at a joke, Mary snuggled closer to her husband. "I always preferred the gun myself."

"I don't think I'm ready for those jokes, honey…" the man closed his eyes tight and exhaled slowly as he tried not to wear his heart on his sleeve. When he opened his eyes once more, is gaze quickly sought out his best friend's impatient form.

Noticing John's pain, Sherlock hesitantly sank into his own armchair. Something anxious echoed in the depths of the great detective's own orbs as he offered his best behavior for a rare change. His impatience had withered like an old flower, and instead he sat still and gazed at the blond man prepared to give him whatever time he needed.

The doctor licked his lips and spoke only when he was sure his voice would carry, "… When did you realize you were Moran's actual target? Because _you are_, aren't you? Did you know when we were out in Hampstead trying to stop him?"

The curly-haired man leaned back in his chair with a bothered grimace. "I wasn't entirely sure then, but I had my suspicions. Targeting Baker Street made it rather obvious. 'Orders from the highest level', though…"

"Excuse me?" the married woman frowned.

"Nothing of importance. I think. Let's stay focused on Moran."

The blond man rolled his eyes and muttered, "I thought we were."

"Well, keep up, John."

"I thought I was…" the doctor sighed as his thoughts reached out to their friend at the hospital. Greg had informed them that Molly was past the worst hurdle, but the doctors at St Bart's saw no signs of her awakening anytime in the foreseeable future. He closed his eyes again and focused on the hateful mission that lay ahead, if only to keep his mind from straying to those sadder memories.

The tall man's gaze burned with a feverish passion as he continued, "My theory is that he is looking to claim Moriarty's withered crown. The terrorist attack last year was supposed to be his first act towards the goal, but I stopped him. If he wants to claim the criminal throne now, Lord Moran must exceed his previous intentions and aim at the sun itself. Aim at the one who killed the last king, and who has the possibility of becoming an admirable foe unless he's stopped permanently."

Reluctantly, John caught on his friend's line of thinking. "Meaning; _you_. Vengeance, then. But why kill the MI6-agent? And why shoot Molly?"

"_Warnings_. I fear they won't be the last."

The blonde woman shifted in her seat and looked quite bothered as she asked, "Have you… shared any of this with Irene?"

"She doesn't want to listen," the great detective grimaced and shrugged his eyebrows as if this was no big deal.

Mary squinted her eyes as she carefully pried for more, "… Is she alright?"

The tall detective shrugged his shoulders indifferently. "Don't know."

"_Sherlock_," John sighed exasperatedly and pinched the bridge of his nose tenderly.

The man's eyes were wide and confused like an infant's as he looked at his friends. It was not the first time he felt like the married couple were his parents, trying to teach him a thing or two about human nature. "What did I do this time?"

"It's about what you _didn't _do…"

"_Really_?" the detective questioned and his eyes danced with incredulous disbelief. "I'm telling you about Lord Moran's plan to kill me and possibly thousands of people, but you want to discuss _The woman?_!"

Mary took the bait. "… Kill thousands?"

Sherlock basked in the spotlight. "Yes. It's unlikely I'm his only target if he intends to claim the throne of the underworld."

"What else then?" John breathed and his voice seemed old and weary from his numerous years of hardship. "Another terrorist attack?"

"I believe so. But I don't know what or when. His former Underground network is scattered, so he's not using them… I'm missing _something_," Sherlock muttered and got lost in the labyrinth of his own mind. "What am I looking for?"

"_Me_."

The trio turned to the voice that interrupted them like a beacon being lit in the darkest night. Illuminated by the pale sun outside, Irene waited in the open doorway, clad in her pale trench-coat and a thick, red scarf around her slender neck. Like an empty vessel, her posture was proud and strong but her eyes lacked their tell-tale sparkle as she beheld the trio.

Sherlock found his voice fastest. "Sorry, what?"

"I have some information for you," the brunette said in a collected tone as she stepped forward and handed the man a manila envelope.

Mary eyed the file as she pointed out, "Those are police records."

"I know a police man, well… what-"

"-what he likes; _We know_!" Sherlock interrupted dryly as he glanced at the contents of what he'd been handed.

Irene licked her lips and clarified, "I talked to him, figured he might have something from the inside. He _reluctantly _gave me that file on Sebastian Moran. Apparently, the Lord is under police surveillance, but the police can't intercept even if he does something. They're only to report on his whereabouts and movements. Orders from the highest division, I'm told."

"Meaning _Mycroft_," the curly-haired man filled in the blanks without much trouble.

John frowned in his seat as he eyed the brunette, and then let his eyes fall to his best friend once more. "I still don't understand… _why_ would your brother let Lord Moran kill people and run loose? It doesn't make any sense."

"Look at the files, will you?" the detective asked with a sigh as he scooted to the edge of his seat and handed over the manila folder. "Your thoughtless questions seem somewhat redundant once you've read that. Don't you agree?"

The doctor glanced at the papers and felt his understanding weaken. He didn't need to a clever detective to know these were highly classified files, still his tired mind found no useful information. In a bothered groan, he said, "He's… What? What's this? This doesn't answer my questions."

"There _is _going to be another terrorist attack, John, at least the police have been warned of one according to that," Sherlock explained coldly as he agilely rose from his seat and faced his audience. "My brother will stoop low in pressured situations, but not low enough to let something so atrocious occur. Worst case scenario? _Coventry_, all over."

_The woman_ hurriedly bit back in a cold voice," That's assuming your brother knows how to prevent it."

"… But what is _it_?" Mary asked slowly.

"I don't know," the detective grimaced. "I expect him to come for my head first and then execute some sort of attack on London, but even these files offer few clues as to how or when."

Irene sighed as she crossed her arms over her chest and leaned back against the desk, her eyes low and dark. "If he's planning an attack, the police doesn't know about it. They've been warned to look for signs, _true_, but they're clueless. They think their surveillance has picked up on everything the Lord does, but they haven't even tied him to any of the shootings. Clearly, he's flying low on the radar."

"Yes, well, what else can you expect? They are _police men_, after all," Sherlock nodded in stiff agreement as he beheld the woman only a few feet away. "Can you look into this some more for me, Irene?"

"I… Yes. I can."

The tall man scrunched up his face as he read the failing emotions in her eyes, but she withdrew into her shell before he could reach out for her. Without a word of goodbye, the woman vanished out the door like a fleeting ghost in twilight. Had it not been for the manila envelope, Sherlock could almost have convinced himself she hadn't been there at all.

He closed his eyes and tried to refocus on the mission, but to no avail. His shoulders slumped as he glanced back at his married friends and decided to test a new approach to reach the next level of understanding. "… She's not alright, is she?"

Amazed to hear the man show interest in human emotions, John closed the file in his hands and focused his attention on his friend. "… Your relationship is struggling."

"It is?"

"Isn't it?" the doctor retorted without missing a beat.

The detective hesitated on the precipice as he pondered the last couple of months. "…I don't know. I haven't been paying it much attention in _that_ respect."

"It's a _relationship_, Sherlock. You have to pay it _a lot_ of attention. If you don't, it's going to end."

The man was inclined to disagree and he did so with a vague grimace, "I don't see you all day, every day, and we're fine."

"That's different, though, as you are aware," the blond furrowed his brow. "… You should open your heart to her, if even a fraction."

"Are you telling me to choose between sentiment and intelligence?" the detective asked in a slow, unappreciative voice as he attempted to read the proposed future.

"_What?_ Jesus, Sherlock! How did you-? _No_." John seemed floored for a second, before he concluded, "I'm just saying that you should be there for her… _as her partner_. Irene's really struggling with her grief."

"_As am I_."

"Not like this, dear…" Mrs Watson intercepted with a pained breath that betrayed her true, caring nature in a sweeping hand.

"Of course. You're the friend who gave her a few sleeping pills. Benefits of being a nurse," The detective turned his curious gaze on the woman and was suddenly all smiley, "Mary, you can tell me anything. You know that. …_Girlfriend_."

The blonde blinked once and a small flash of amusement appeared in her warm, caring eyes. "What have I said about using phrases you've heard on the telly in real life? It _doesn't_ make you sound genuinely predisposed. _Certainly_ not more human."

The man shrugged off her remark flippantly. "Well, it was an experiment. _Tell me anyway_."

Her face faltered briefly. "I can't, Sherlock. I'm sorry. It's not my place to say."

"_But you know_," the man said as he sniffed out the truth like a blood hound in the field. His eyes flew between his friends as he stepped back in confusion. "You _both _know what this is about."

"Listen, we-"

The great detective swirled around and his protective walls rose higher than ever. "This is boring me, John. What say we corner my brother with the information in that police file instead? It _might_ even give us some real answers."

* * *

"Well, aren't you running to your big brother for help a lot lately?" Mycroft offered with dripping sarcasm as Sherlock and John entered his grand, Victorian office. "Shall I take out the celebratory champagne?"

The doctor frowned as he eyed the older, suit-clad Holmes behind the desk. "… What?"

"I'm assuming all this free time means Ms Adler has left my brother at last."

"_No_… Tea will do fine," Sherlock breathed as he held both arms behind his back and stood stoic like a proud statue.

The government official sighed and buzzed for tea as he leaned back in his leather seat. "She was going to leave you once, you know, but you pulled her back in. Can you blame me for hoping she'll regain her senses soon?"

The younger man shrugged, "As I said; _The woman_'s still around."

"...And you've brought your arguments full circle with that," Mycroft's eyebrows rose to his hairline. "Not much of a case, is it?"

"A good case needs very little to be great."

"A good relationship all the more."

"How would you know?" Sherlock questioned scathingly and there was a faint hint of irritation in the corner of his strong jaw and eyes. Tired of the conversation, the young man sank into one of the chairs opposite his brother's grand, oak desk. The leather groaned beneath his cloak as he settled down comfortably and fixed the other man with a strong glare. "I'm not here about _The woman_."

"_No_," Mycroft breathed with equal tension. "You're here about Sebastian Moran."

"Yes. John," the detective waved his hand expectantly.

The doctor jumped to action as he presented the older Holmes brother with the manila envelope. As the man placed the file on the desk and sat down in the other chair, Mycroft merely glared down at the papers with knowing eyes.

"It's true," Sherlock offered with a playful, mocking voice, "The police haven't got much of a register on Moran's movements since he was released from jail. _That_ seems to be all they know."

"Did you really expect they would have more?"

"There's an interesting note in there, though, brother," the detective's leer was fake and inhuman as he continued, "The police have been warned of an impending terrorist attack, but have no evidence to support their superior's suspicions. With you being the highest division, the balance of probability suggests you know what they don't."

Reluctant to share his treasure chest full of secrets, Mycroft still gave them a glimpse of the truth, "We have our own spies tailing him, yes. Naturally, we know more about his movements than the police does."

"_Naturally_."

Their conversation was briefly interrupted as Mycroft's assistant, a beautiful, young woman in a sharp suit, entered with tray of tea cups. She set it down on the desk and left the ornate room without further ado. The second she closed the door, however, the tension in the room had as expected turned 180 degrees in the detective's favor.

"Fair enough, brother…" the elder Holmes sighed as his eyes admitted to being cornered. "I'll give you the information you want. Only the _small_ portion I can offer... But perhaps _enough_ to give you a head start on Sebastian Moran. God knows we could use an outsider to help us bring him down eventually."

John cleared his throat and interrupted, "Sorry, but how come you don't just lock him up again?"

"I'm not sharing that information, Dr Watson… Let's just say: We need Lord Moran to make a mistake before we can act _officially_."

As the other men spoke, Sherlock found his own attention drift to lesser important matters. Try as he might, he couldn't get the image of Irene's hurt expression out of his head. Her eyes had spoken a message to him so loud and clear… and yet he hadn't heard a single of word it.

_You're _busy_!_ He reminded himself and blinked rapidly as he returned to the conversation in the office.

"What can you share about this terrorist attack then? Was your MI6-agent on to something before she was killed or…?" John asked and his voice was sharp in Sherlock's head at the start, but soon faded to a dull murmur as the detective's thoughts strayed back to _The woman_.

_For God's sake_, he thought, _I'm not interested in her issues – the problem with Sebastian Moran, on the other hand, is at the top of my list of concerns!_

Out of the blue, a figment of his imagination appeared behind his brother's chair, and the detective exhaled in great displeasure.

Molly Hooper, clad in her usual lab coat and with her long hair pulled back in a ponytail, grinned down at him. Her posture was calm and expectant as she stood behind Mycroft's chair, awaiting the detective's first move. The man knew there was no other way around it and so pressed pause on reality as he descended into his mind palace.

"Please tell me you're here to tell me to focus on the case with Lord Moran."

The woman's smile was unapologetic as she shook her head once. "I'm not."

Sherlock frowned. "_Then why?_"

"I'm _you_," Molly pointed out. "Are you really asking yourself why your own imagination is doing something?"

The man breathed out deeply and released the reins entirely as he submitted himself to his imagination's scrutiny. "_The woman_."

"You _need_ to know the truth."

Sherlock nodded slowly. "... I don't understand how John and Mary know the secret, when _I_ don't. It makes _no sense_."

The young woman tilted her head to the side and her imploring eyes searched his as if intent on leaving no stone untouched. "If it doesn't make sense that you don't know, then what is the most probable answer?"

"No, no…" he breathed and a sliver of emotion touched the edge of his weary voice. "I _honestly_ don't have the answer."

"Then focus!" Molly exhaled without missing a beat and her sharp eyes tried to convey a meaning the man much didn't wish to receive.

"She isn't just mourning your near-death experience. So in view of all the likely explanations to explain her irrational behavior these past few weeks… Her problem is related to _me_. To be more specific: To her and me. To… _us_."

The young scientist nodded encouragingly and a sweet smile nudged him closer to the truth. "_Focus!_"

Sherlock grimaced as his mind rewound the past couple of weeks in his head and showed them to him as projections on a big silver screen. Without pondering it much, his attention was drawn to one conversation in particular he'd had with _The woman_ about a week earlier.

"_Honestly… You did the same to me. I had to eat in the living room._"

"_Yes, and you nearly threw up. Weak-stomached woman."_

"_I'm __not__ weak-stomached, Sherlock."_

As the revelation presented itself as clear as day in his head, the man released a heavy gasp and closed his eyes tight. _There it was_. The solution he'd been working so hard to find hadn't even been hidden behind an intricate puzzle to solve, it had been there in plain daylight all along.

Gathering himself mentally, he flew from his seat and startled the men to drop their conversation. In complete bewilderment and with wide, incredulous eyes, the detective uttered as an explanation, "_The bloated fingers!_"

Offering nothing more, the man swirled around and practically ran out of the room before either of his company had a chance to react. Close to being dumbfounded, Mycroft turned his mute surprise to the former army doctor.

John merely shrugged in reply and his eyes were wide as saucers. "Don't look at me…"

* * *

Hours later, Irene returned to Baker Street after a long day of trying to find answers to their case on Moran. She'd done a thorough job, but apart from the initial information she'd already passed on to the detective, she'd had a hard time receiving anything else of use from her sources. When she'd at last thrown in the towel, it was on heavy legs she had returned to the flat. She hated being the one to let her best friend down, she hated not being able to help Molly.

She'd barely stepped into the hallway when she heard Sherlock's voice float around her tired shape like a jovial, energetic dance. "_Ah..._ Good, you're home."

The man suddenly stood beside her in the open doorway and his eyes burned with something unreadable as he hovered over her smaller frame. With a flick of the wrist, he turned off the overhead lamp and Irene noticed all the candles lit around the living room and kitchen. As she tried to understand the meaning of it, Sherlock raised a small remote, pressed a button and the room suddenly enjoyed the comfortable embrace of Ingrid Michaelson's _Can't Help Falling In Love_.

The woman felt her heart stop and was caught in her position as if turned to stone. She knew that cover song well enough; it was the very same tune Mrs Hudson had played at the dinner party that ended in Sherlock and Irene's first night 'together'. The choice of song could be no coincidence, though the woman wondered at the actual sentiment behind it. As to why, she certainly had but one idea, and it both terrified and calmed her in equal measures.

She lingered in the doorway to the kitchen as the man moved over and sat down behind the table and his microscope. With a wide grin that seemed out of place, he waved her over. She followed his siren call and lingered on the other side of the table but didn't dare to open her mouth and break the spell he had her under.

The man's eyes fell and as she followed their path, her own gaze soon came to land upon the small, velvety item standing solitary watch on the cold table top before her. She inhaled sharply and quickly discarded her purse and jacket on the stool beside her.

"What's that?"

"Why don't you open it?"

Irene reluctantly obeyed and raised her hand towards the object. Her slender fingers lingered on the lid for another couple of seconds, before she opened what she expected was a Pandora's box. Inside rested a beautiful, diamond ring. 2.5 carat. Small bead-set diamonds embraced an emerald-cut diamond as the center gem. It was refined and classically elegant – exactly the kind of ring that fit her taste. Clearly he'd put some thought behind the purchase.   


The woman exhaled wearily as her eyes flew up to meet the detective's. His gaze shone with intrigue and clever scheming as he beheld her in return. Without missing a beat, Irene slammed the box shut and covered her heart behind a thin veil of impassiveness.

Her voice was crisp and low as she questioned, "So you know then?"

The man tilted his head sideways and casually remarked, "That's not an answer."

Irene mirrored his movement and retorted with fiery determination, "There was never a proposal… was there?"

"Only a deception," the man's eyes darkened with heavy thoughts and he was clearly done toying with her, as his smile faded into the emptiness of his hollow eyes. She saw the predator in his pale gaze, ready to snap her neck at any second, and she raised her chin to give him better access.

"The motives of some women… the secrets you can keep. I've always wondered how you can build anything on such quicksand," he continued and his low voice was meant to burn at her heart. "But _you _… are the worst of your kind. All I thought trivial about you is a bottomless sea of lies. The measure of your deceit… _infinite_."

"Should I-?"

"No, I'm on it."

"Okay."

The man jumped from his seat and circled the room as a hunter on the prowl. "The bloated fingers… You could barely stand the stench when I was experimenting on them here. Enhanced sense of smell. You nearly threw up because it upset your stomach, and it wasn't the last time your stomach's been upset. You gained a few pounds after returning home from our vacation. An increase in appetite," the man paused as he glared down at the woman and revealed his verdict; "...You're pregnant. Aren't you?"

Irene swallowed as she held her head high and breathed words she'd long dreaded to reveal, "I was."

Something flashed in the man's eyes as he cornered her mentally in a cage she could not escape from. "…That's right. You've lost weight over this past week alone, but not only because of your grieving process. Did you abort? _No_. You had a miscarriage, didn't you? Why didn't you tell me?"

"Does it really matter, Sherlock? It's all over and done with anyway. It can't be _undone_. Let's move on."

"_I can't_."

The woman offered no consolation as her eyes fell from his. She'd been expecting this confrontation for a while, but had purposefully not planned a defense. Now, she felt exposed and vulnerable, feelings she was unaccustomed to, and they threatened to rip her soul apart. To remain silent and still seemed the only way not to fall apart on the kitchen floor, and she forced herself not to move into a defensive stance.

When seconds passed without a reply, Sherlock eventually grew tired and turned his back on her. "When?"

Irene knew her protective walls were unsteady as she forced her voice to remain aloof, "You know when."

"The day Molly was shot. I thought it was psychosomatic pains," the man muttered to himself and glanced back at her. "So John and Mary…?"

"Mary, as well as Molly, knew I was pregnant before that day," the words were hard to utter as they painfully scraped at the insides of her throat. "I'd known myself for about a week then. John returned here the night Molly was shot not an hour after… it had happened. In a weak moment, I told him the truth."

"You told all of them – but _not me_?" Sherlock snarled and practically bared his teeth like a furious dog. "I've been so _busy_ trying to figure out what the problem was with you, I got _distracted_. The distracting factor you contribute throws a doubt on all my mental results. _Don't you see?_ If you hadn't been here – _distracting me_ – I would have realized Moran was targeting Baker Street and intercepted his plan. I could have… set up a dummy to fool him. I _would _have caught him without anyone being harmed, Irene!"

The graceful beauty closed her eyes from the truth even the man refused to admit and let herself serve as his punching bag. "You're blaming _me _for what happened that day?"

"_Yes!_" the man growled without thinking and then paused to regain control over his mind. He drew a couple of calming breaths before he said,_ "_…No. I'm blaming _myself_ for being distracted by you. You didn't actually think I'd simply take this news in stride, did you? Irene... you lost _my child_."

"I am aware of that."

As the man once more paced the flat to let off some steam and make sense of his jumbled thoughts, the woman silently remained in her frozen pose in the kitchen. Her eyes closed on their own accord as she wanted to offer him words of comfort, but knew she had none to give.

"I _was _distracted," Sherlock breathed at last as he returned to her side and waited until she met his gaze. "But let us make one thing clear between us once and for all: I am unaware of your beauty, your emotions towards me and any other… _soft passions_ you can imagine. It was your mind that distracted me. I am your _partner_, but you place me in a false position if you consider me a _lover_. I feel _nothing_ akin to love towards you."

The conversation was going just as Irene had anticipated and she exhaled calmly, "I know."

At length, the man let his own eyes fall as he tiredly breathed, "You know love stands in great opposition to the cold reason I hold above all things."

"Yes. I know that, too."

"I can't give up my mind palace for you," Sherlock admitted and felt relief wash over him for being able to voice the thought aloud. Not even a second later, his relief was forced away by something dark that bit at his heart and forced him to conclude with, "…_I'm sorry_."

"Sherlock…" Irene's voice lingered in the small space between them, hesitant about pushing forward. "I don't want to be a distraction. And I would never ask you to give up your mind palace."

He frowned down at her suspiciously. "But aren't you?"

"No. It's very simple, perhaps too simple for your mind…" the brunette said and held his eyes with a flare of fire and resentment. "You and I don't function together. We won't function any better if you give up half of what makes you _you_. Sherlock Holmes."

"So what happens now?" the detective ran a hand through his curls as he walked back to his seat across from her and sank onto the chair. "What do people… partners… do in these situations?"

"There are only so many options."

The man nodded in agreement. "12, by my count... Of course, not all valid here. By my estimation: 2 - _possibly 3_ - scenarios can play out-"

"No," Irene's empty voice interrupted and the room was trapped in the void of their failing relationship.

"…'_No'_?"

"Only the one."

"Which one?"

"You already know."

"… _Say it_."

* * *

_To be continued._


	11. The Show Must Go On

_Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock Holmes or anything affiliated to the great works._

_A/N; A huge thank you to the overwhelming response and support in the reviews for the last chapter! I was floored by it and very honoured!_

* * *

**Chapter 11: The Show Must Go On**

John barged into 221 B as he discarded his long, blue scarf and gazed about for his friend. The curly-haired man sat silently in his armchair by the open fireplace, like a figurine in a doll house. The comforting sound of the crackling fire added a texture of warmth the man seemed to lack at this hour.

Slowly and with very meticulous hands, Sherlock was cleaning his violin bow as the dark of night settled outside the window behind him.

"Hey, what's wrong?" the blond man breathed as he stepped further into the room. His worried gaze scanned his friend's calm exterior as he came closer. "I got your text."

"She's gone."

John did a double take and his jaw slowly dropped. "… Oh."

The detective's face remained void of emotions as he finished cleaning and leered up at his friend. There was a cautionary calm to his voice that could well mean nothing, or hide a bottomless pit from the world. "It was a mutual understanding. She packed her belongings and left Baker Street about an hour ago. I wanted you to hear it from me first."

The other man sank into the second armchair as his baffled gaze looked for cracks in his friend's flawless façade. "But-"

"It was the right decision, John. Accept it." The man exhaled tediously and rose from his seat in a fluid motion that seemed to suggest nothing was out of place with the world turning on its head. As if his heart had not just been ripped out and stomped on to a bleeding pulp.

The doctor blinked and eyed his friend wearily. "… That's it? No tantrums or dramatic inclinations to turn towards your drugs? You're just… calm with it?"

"Sorry to disappoint," the man muttered as he put away the bow in its case.

"Yeah…" the blond sighed and shifted in his seat as his confusion was substituted with patient irritation. "For once, you actually kind of are, Sherlock."

"You only need a head and a heart, John. I've got you, so I'm covered. I don't need _The woman_."

The doctor rolled his eyes and felt anger rise in his chest like a herd of stampeding animals across a plain. He closed his eyes and blurted, "_You arsehole_."

"What?"

John turned to glare up at his friend as he bluntly said, "Can I at least ask why?"

"You know already."

That answer only made this whole ordeal all the more unsatisfying. He knew Sherlock Holmes better than anyone, but still John's heart kept on hoping that the detective had evolved and stopped treating others in this cold fashion. The blond man stared up at his friend as if the latter was some kind of alien entity. "You broke up with her because she miscarried?"

"She withheld the information and distracted me from seeing the truth! I bought her _this_ to make a point and prove to her how irrelevant love was to me," Sherlock threw the small ring box to his friend and shrugged his shoulders as he concluded in genuine bewilderment, "… what else could I do?"

"_Bugger_…" John eyes basically bulged from his skull as he opened the box and the diamond ring sparkled up at him from its cushion of rejection. With great restraint, he tried to get through to the man opposite him, "You learn she's suffered a miscarriage and you buy her _this engagement ring_ - not to propose! – but to break up with her not even a week after her best friend is shot in the head?"

Sherlock's gaze wandered upwards as he pondered the words. "Yep."

"She was in pain… and you thought adding to that was the right course of action?"

The tall man seemed just as put off as his friend, when he proclaimed, "It was the _only_ course!"

The doctor crossed his arms over his chest as he faced the man like a matador faces a bull in the arena. "Are you mad at her for lying, for miscarrying or for making you feel something for her?"

"John, _I swear, I don't_-"

"_I know!_" the man hollered in return and effectively shut up the detective. "But I don't buy it! Seriously, Sherlock, are you _completely_ out of your mind?!"

"Well, yes! That's rather the point!"

The admission was like a cold shower to them both, and caught John completely by surprise. As he cooled down, he breathed, "… Then can we at least agree that you _are_ affected by her? That she's found her way into your heart?"

"No."

"_Do you mean 'yes'_?" John bit back with a great measure of sass. "Did you take it seriously? Or were you so busy 'getting back at her' that you didn't even offer a little comfort? She lost a child, she lost you and nearly her best friend in _one_ day."

The dark-haired man grimaced coldly as he lingered by the windows. "I lost all of that, too."

"… And I'm worried for _both_ of you."

"Neither of us are sentimental about these things," the tall man waved off his friend's concern as he stepped over and sank into his armchair once more. As if to prove his point, he smiled mechanically and said, "We'll both be fine."

"That's a contradiction if ever I heard one…" the doctor muttered. "Did she explain her side of the story?"

"No, not really," the detective squinted. "She didn't say much."

"She just… removed herself from the equation? And you didn't find that odd?"

"I found it _very_ odd," Sherlock disagreed and a hint of emotion brewed in his colourful eyes. "But I need to let it go. I need to get her out of my system, John, sharpen my edge. That's the only way to return to form."

Having reached the end of his limit when it concerned his friend's heartlessness, John threw up his hands in furious surrender. "_Fine_! Close your eyes and turn your back on her! That's what you're good at, isn't it?!"

Without awaiting a reply, the shorter man flew from his seat, ready to barge out the door, but something stopped him right on the brink. With a mad, knowing grin, John glanced back at the seated detective.

"Oh… Sherlock?"

"Mm?"

"You said _'was'_," he said daringly and watched as his friend's face furrowed in confusion. The doctor tossed back the ring box and watched as the man caught it deftly in his strong hands. John pointed at the small object as he said his parting words, "You said 'prove how irrelevant love _was _to me'. _Past-tense_. I recall that being of significance recently. Wasn't it?"

* * *

About a week later, the news of the unexpected break-up had settled and everything had turned back to 'normal', as life had been pre-Adler. Of course, John knew, it couldn't be entirely like before, but the good detective certainly gave the appearance of things being back to stellar provisions. He'd tried many ways, but still he'd found no way of getting through the thick skull of Sherlock Holmes. In this mind-set; he was a king of the crime-solving world and an undefeated champion for stoicism.

The detective had included his best friend more and more in his cases since Irene'd moved out, and in many ways it was like old times again. Still, despite a numerous array of intricate puzzles, there remained one that he could not provide a satisfying answer to: Lord Moran. The noble man had seemingly vanished off the radar after the murder attempt at Baker Street, and left few bread crumbs to follow.

As John and Mary made themselves at home, present at 221 B to help the consultant detective sort through a few odd cases, the blond man couldn't help but eye his friend with a curious frown. He'd tried gauging the man's features from every possible angle, but the answer to his quiet pondering never presented itself. At length, Sherlock grew tired of the scrutiny and stopped working long enough to throw his friend a tentative glare.

John cleared his throat as he awkwardly began. "Did you… forget to shave this morning?"

The tall man stroked a hand across his stubbled chin. "I decided not to."

The doctor simply frowned. He'd never seen his friend change his appearance through all the years he'd known the man (except for temporarily while working a case). John rather wagered it was part of his Asperger-ish persona, to not alter things outside the box he'd made comfortable for himself. He wanted to voice his personal opinion that this visual change had something to do with his recent break-up from a certain ex-dominatrix, but knew that suggestion wouldn't be well received. Instead, he set out on another task.

Sherlock glanced at his best friend as the shorter man casually strolled across the living room. "If you're looking for my stash, you're looking in vain. I've neither cigarettes nor drugs here… Haven't had either for about a year."

"Oh, I wasn't-"

"Yes, you were."

"… Nicotine patches?"

"Not since that stint with Moriarty."

"Nothing?"

"_Nothing_," the detective sighed and sat down behind his laptop. "I don't need that kind of fix. My mind is sharp and in superb form once more… without distraction it runs like a well-oiled machine. As you are well aware, the cases are all I require."

Mary eyed the huge pile of papers that lay restless on the desk and the intricate mind map he'd commenced on the dark wall above the couch. "… Exactly how many cases are you working at once, Sherlock?"

"I've lost count," the man muttered as he got up to show off his mind map to her. "_These_ are all related to Lord Moran, however."

John frowned as he stepped over and glared up at the numerous photos and newspaper articles of people he didn't recognize, connected with red wire and Sherlock's scribbles all over the place. "Who are these people?"

"I went through all the papers from August to now, from about the time Moran was released from jail," the tall man explained and the telltale enthusiasm colored his voice bright. "_These people _are connected. They're political figures subject to recent blackmail, secret agents mysteriously found dead and mysteriously missing people."

John nodded. "Anyone up there I ought to recognize?"

"You're not me, so I don't expect much," Sherlock grumbled as he pointed to two photos at the edge of the mind map. "The dead MI6-agent whose case we worked a few weeks back. And Ronald Adair."

"The guy who jumped off Kew Railway Bridge, right?" the blond man furrowed his brow. "How's he related to this?"

"The police needed to find a body desperately, suggesting pressure from a higher division," the detective explained in a swift tongue. "Mycroft and his peers were clearly concerned about what Adair's disappearance meant for _them_. Adair's not more important than any other up there, but they're all tied together with Moran somehow."

"But _how_?"

"Oh, don't you see?" Sherlock asked in a fatigued growl. "This is Moran's sketch board for the coming terrorist attack. It's a clever ploy with blackmail," - he pointed at Adair's photo – "murder" – his finger turned to the MI6-agent – "and disappearances of important politicians and other powerful people. It's very versatile of him. For now he's playing, but it's a terrorizing game meant to strike fear in my brother's associates. I'm not sure what the endgame will be, but I wager it leads to a great, big storm that will strike London soon."

The blonde woman glanced up at the men. "What about the information your brother had on Sebastian Moran?"

Sherlock grimaced. "I doubt it would have done me any good. He's hell-bent on leaving me out of this. No, Mycroft wouldn't have helped us."

_Pling!_

John conspicuously glanced down at his phone and the new text. "Oh, eh… I've got to go. There's been an emergency at the hosp-"

Without turning his gaze from the wall of clues, Sherlock jadedly commented, "You're meeting Irene."

"Eh… yeah."

"It's fine," the man shrugged. "No need to lie about it. She's your friend."

"Alright then…" John nodded slowly as he grabbed his jacket and headed for the exit. "I'll pick up Elizabeth on the way home. See you tonight, Mary. Good luck with the cases!"

The other two listened as the man's footsteps descended down the stairs until the sound slowly faded into the humdrum noises of the October afternoon.

With a dark sigh, the detective suddenly broke the silence. "_Irene_."

Mary's attention shot back up to the detective in surprise. "What was that, Sherlock?"

"Lord Moran is coming for me. She's the most obvious target to get to me," the man said in a short tone and shot her a knowing glance. "You the second most obvious with your connection to John."

"… Good to know."

"I can't fully explain why Moran shot Molly instead of either of you. It could be that he doesn't want to remake Moriarty's mistakes… but I doubt he's that clever."

"So what are you thinking?" the woman frowned as she stepped closer to the contemplative man.

He inclined his head and his voice was sharp and metallic when he explained, "That Sebastian Moran was actually aiming for _The woman_."

"But _missed_?"

"Just so."

"So afterwards, when you two… did you-" Sherlock's gaze lowered in reply and the blonde beauty reached out to him. "Oh, dear…"

Her hand squeezed his arm for a second and he let her offer him a small measure of friendship before he tugged loose. "Back to the cases, Mary. They won't solve themselves!"

* * *

John opened the front door and smiled brightly at the slender woman outside. "Hey! Thanks for coming."

Irene, clad in stylish, sophisticated clothes that seemed on par with her luxurious outfits and dominating business back in the day, smiled back at him as she stepped inside the house. "Of course."

"So… it's been awhile. How've you been?" the doctor asked awkwardly as he guided her inside his home and tried to keep his tone natural. "I mean… considering everything."

With an amused, cat-like grin, the brunette showed not a single hint of heartbreak or emotional fatigue as she replied, "_Good_. You?"

"Good," the man echoed as he led them into the kitchen.

Irene had always liked the Watson residence, since it mirrored the family so perfectly. It was bright and warm, with a lot of homily spirit that filled her with a sense of comfort she was unused to. It was a safe haven in an unsteady world. It was a paradox, really, considering the adrenaline junkies that owned the place.

In a high baby chair by the kitchen table, the golden haired girl sat and eyed the guest with big, curious eyes. She made a small gurgling noise of recognition and chortled several almost-words as her father stroked the top of her head.

The man proceeded to walk around the kitchen to prepare tea for his guest as he hurriedly explained, "Mary's good. She says "Hi", by the way. Elizabeth's good, as you can see. Sherlock's good, too."

"_Ah_…" the fair brunette breathed as she sat down on the chair next to Elizabeth.

"Have you two… had any contact these past few weeks?"

"Not even a syllable."

"I know he was an outright jackass-"

The woman raised a slim eyebrow as she interrupted in a smooth voice, "Tell me I'm not here so you can plead his case, John."

"No, no I wasn't gonna-" the man sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose as he searched for words to translate his worry. "I'm not asking you to get back together… just don't leave it _like this_. He doesn't want this, Irene… He _thinks_ he does, but-"

"He could have stopped it."

"Would you have let him?" the blond questioned without thinking and closed his eyes tight. He knew the woman had suffered much in silence these past weeks, and certainly didn't need him to add to that even if she wanted to play difficult. "It's _Sherlock_ we're talking about… he thinks being alone protects him."

"He's right," the woman cooed stubbornly.

John scrunched up his face in childish confusion as he offered her a cup of steaming tea and sat down opposite from her. "… What does that mean? 'He's right'…?"

"He's been getting stuck in a lot of routine cases lately, unable to deduce even smaller matters."

"Dear God, you're starting to sound like him… You think sentiment is slowing his mind? 'Cause I think that's just a placebo effect."

The woman shook her head slowly. "It's better this way. You'll see it eventually."

"… You said that last time, too," John said in a dark tone as he remembered the day at the harbour when he'd last been forced to say goodbye to the woman. "But he chased after you… And you let him stop you."

Irene visibly raised walls between them then and her impenetrable, icy orbs glared at him across the table that seemed miles wide. "_Wrong choice_."

"_Maybe_," the man shrugged. "Maybe _this _is the wrong choice."

The woman exhaled slowly as if his prodding at last had led her close to the edge. In a short, eager tone, she breathed, "John… You've seen him when he enters his mind palace. It's so very hypnotizing… and terrifying, at the same time. He disappears entirely into his brain … and you can just tell that he's balancing on this great precipice of a bottomless abyss. One step in the wrong direction, and he'll be lost in his own mind and God knows what he'll be capable of then. Whether tomorrow, a year from now or ten years down the line… If I stay with him, he'll take that wrong step one day. _Because of me_."

"No, no, no," the man fervently disagreed and leaned his elbows on the table top and searched out her gaze. He knew her well enough to see through that ploy, and the implication surprised even John. "That's a lie. This isn't all happening because you're afraid someday he'll snap."

Irene shrugged and exhaled in amusement. She hadn't anticipated his sharp and alert mind to see through her so easily. Stunned to silence, John didn't waste the opportune moment as he pushed her closer to the edge.

"I don't care what he says: I know he cares for you. He just doesn't understand it. It's the one thing he'll _never_ understand, I suppose."

Something in the woman's pale eyes seemed close to snapping for one reason or another, and whether by force or choice, she revealed, "Don't you see? His feelings are irrelevant!"

The blond man leaned back in his seat and quietly stared at her for a long while as he saw the truth reflected in her hesitant gaze. "…You _know_ he has feelings for you, but you're willing to play along with his insistent argument that he doesn't. But _why_…? I always thought he was the frightened one… but it's _you_, isn't it? It's always been you, not him, who's been running this show. _You're_ the one without an off-switch, aren't you?"

"I'm not-"

"I don't understand," the man bluntly interrupted as his mind reeled and he stumbled on his jumbled thoughts. "He feels _something_ for you, and the Irene Adler I first met years ago would have seen that as a victory. That you beat him. _The Woman... _she wouldn't... _Oh!_ Things have changed. If he admits to feelings, so must you. That's the off-switch. The defeat. My God... the two of you... _I swear!_"

Irene's eyes didn't carry the same sparkle, but her voice was still defiant as she teased, "We're not playing anymore, John."

"No..." the man inclined his head slowly. "And that's why it's dangerous, isn't it?"

The brunette's smile was wide and her eyes unblinking as she glared at her friend. In her gaze was no starlight, but a blinding light still burned within the depths that refused to look away. After a few seconds, she offered, "It's not in our nature to love or be loved. It's in our nature to create our own paths, and they were never meant to intertwine."

"_Bollocks_!" John chortled loudly. "Clearly, you were meant to meet from the start!"

Suddenly the sound of the woman's phone interrupted their tense conversation, and Irene gladly took the offered escape route. She grabbed the mobile phone from her purse and glared down at it for a second before she slowly said, "Sorry… I've got to dash. I've got another appointment, it seems."

"Oh?" the blond shrugged his eyebrows. "Anyone I know? … Old client?"

The woman rose with feline grace and cooed, "Goodbye, John. See you around."

"Promise?" the man called after her and didn't even bother hiding his friendly, worried tone. "You're free to come to dinner whenever you like, Mary and I would be delighted. Elizabeth, too, but then again, she's always delighted."

Irene smiled as she met the man's gaze and said, "Thank you. I might take you up on that someday."

* * *

"And here I thought my days of shady meetings in a secluded parking garage where at an end," Irene mused in an elegantly dry voice as her sharp heels clicked against the stone ground with playful force and conviction. "Here to threaten me, Mr Holmes?"

The tall, coat-clad man turned and smiled with inhuman lack of passion at the slender woman. "Something tells me you're not so easily threatened."

She stopped before him and beheld him under the murky, dim lights of the secluded area. Curiosity shone through her mask as she boldly said, "Not _by you_, certainly. I'd say I was surprised to hear from you… but I'd be lying."

Mycroft rolled his eyes, as if he considered the woman far beneath him, and merely shifted from one foot to the other as he beheld her with stern, cold eyes. He'd never attempted to hide his opinion of her, and the brunette knew he was still pettily mad at her, like a school kid mad at its peer even after years of evolution. She imagined the man saw himself as having been wronged for her 'intruding' on Sherlock's life, subsuming a part of trusted confidante previously held by the man's brother. Then again, her blackmailing the government could still play a part in his constant image of her.

The fair woman smirked and reveled in the displeasure her leer awoke in the man's bottomless eyes. With a soft, playful tone, she decided to bite the bullet, "Why haven't you thrown me out of the country yet? I thought you would have forced it weeks ago. I have no ties to your brother anymore. He's not protecting me... You've finally gotten the chance you've been waiting for."

Something dark glistened in the man's gaze as his lips tightened like a noose around a neck. "You saw it, didn't you?"

"Saw what?"

"How he was divided after opening his heart to you," the man's dull voice carried strong in the underground room and seemed to linger with them even as he slowly concluded, "He couldn't pay the price of brilliance there for a while."

The woman knew her smile remained impeccable, though her insides were in turmoil, as she breathed, "I recall that conversation between us."

The coldness exuding from the man's tall frame nearly chilled Irene to the bone as he hovered closer and menacingly snared, "I was right."

"There's really no need to say 'I told you so'."

"I'll say it nonetheless," Mycroft retorted swiftly and his voice filled with anger and mockery in a well-balanced dance. "You're risking his life, Ms Adler."

"I'm trying _not to_."

"_Try harder_."

"I left him, what more can I do?" The fair woman shook her head in a sign of weathered defeat and admitted, "I don't understand what you're asking of me."

"Well… Be in touch when you do figure it out. Until then, I don't have much to say to you. Have a good evening, Ms Adler."

Irene frowned and her lively orbs swirled with surprise as Mycroft Holmes turned to leave. Her voice stopped the man dead in his tracks and beckoned him back, "… You'll let me be? I thought you'd give me a one-way ticket away from here. Why...? Why just come here to gloat?"

"I came to gloat and to give you a heads up," the older man said and at last a fire burned in his pale orbs. Something flashed across his features that hinted at a deeper commitment than the one offered, but whatever it had been was soon gone behind a thick armor. "Leave on your own… or meet a more permanent end down the line."

"Is that a threat?"

"No… It's a promise."

Mycroft smiled a final grin that seemed to speak a darker tale than the one spun between them insinuated. Slowly, he strolled towards the exit but once more lingered in his conquering mind-set. He glanced over his shoulder and breathed, "Oh, and, Ms Adler? _I told you so_."

Irene watched him disappear out of sight and heard the door close behind him, echoing in the empty space as the woman stood rooted in her spot. After another couple of seconds, she inhaled and let the confusion leave her body with a slow, simple exhale. She swiftly turned and walked out of the garage as she tried to leave the moment in the past.

As both figures disappeared out of the garage and the deafening silence descended over the murky spot, Sherlock Holmes remained in his hideout in the deep shadows. At last, after a second of reflection, the last man left the scene, too.

* * *

_To be continued._


	12. A Voice In The Dark

_Disclaimer: Still own nothing (bummer)!_

_A/N: The nod to 3x03 in this chapter is supposedly true, and something the production designer revealed after the episode aired. But I'll spoil it no further. Believe if you wish, or not. Your call. My story, though._

* * *

**Chapter 12: A Voice In The Dark**

As November slowly crept around the corner with its icy embrace and promise of warm, cuddly scarfs and mittens, Sherlock walked steadily down the narrow corridor as he dialed a familiar number on his phone. He waited a breath but wasn't surprised to hear his brother answer already after two signals.

"What took you so long?" Mycroft's voice drawled in a warm greeting. "I offered you sought-after information, but instead of listening you simply ran out of my office. I wasn't expecting that treatment, brother."

Sherlock merely hummed as he evaded stepping into a stressed nurse and kept walking through the hospital with one hand still casually resting in his coat pocket. Ignoring the displeased note to his brother's voice, the younger man said, "Leave her alone, Mycroft."

"Who?"

"You know who I'm referring to."

There was a brief pause in which Sherlock could practically hear the storm clouds gathering above his brother's head. "… _My God_, I thought you'd called to listen to my advice _at last_ after you humiliated us both by walking out, but you're actually calling about Irene Adler?!"

"It's not like that."

"No?"

"_No_."

There was a deep sigh that seemed to ask every possible deity for strength and patience, before Mycroft drawled, "I told you I'd leave her alone, and I have."

"_Liar_," the younger man spat and seamlessly changed the topic to a less personal one. "It's _not_ the North Koreans, is it?"

"No, Sherlock. It's not."

The man pursed his lips as his steps picked up their pace and force. "That's all I wanted to know."

"… I had more to share. Are you suddenly uninterested?"

"No, no, far from it," the detective disagreed in a vibrating voice. "I've simply decided I don't need your aid after all, _brother mine_. _Ta!_"

The man hung up as he rounded a corner and approached his destination. The door ahead was open slightly and a gentle voice was heard within the infirmary room. Sherlock slowed his pace and came to a stop outside the door, where he lingered like a ghost between worlds.

The soothing voice, soft as silk on skin, sighed, "You know I'm not fancy to cliché outbursts of sentiment, yet I keep repeating myself every time I come to visit you. It's really not fair. You know it's not very _me_. But… don't let this be it. Wake up, Molly. …_Live_."

The curly-haired man closed his eyes tight as he heard the strain in Irene's voice. He wondered about walking away to offer them some privacy, but before he could move: the short, slender woman appeared in the doorway. He hadn't seen _The woman _in almost three weeks and her sudden presence caught him off-guard.

She wore a demure, blue dress with her long, dark hair loose and flowing around her frame. Her bright eyes sparkled, with both intrigue and tears, as she tilted her head to the side and gazed up at the staring man.

Unprepared, Sherlock managed, "I wasn't- I was just-"

"-_Eavesdropping_," the brunette cooed and surely didn't seem surprised at his presence as she leaned against the door frame, exuding confidence and pride. "I heard you approach."

When Irene kept her façade impeccable, it helped the tall man keep his own impassive strength and stand his ground. With a tiny grin, he acknowledged, "Perceptive, as always."

"Come to misbehave, Mr Holmes?"

The man cleared his throat. "I thought you'd left London."

"No, you didn't," she said confidently but her face fell slightly as she glanced over her shoulder. "Anyway, I wouldn't with Molly still in this condition. I've abandoned many people in my life, but I won't abandon her."

"Actually… I'm sor-"

"_Scruff_."

The tall man shrugged his eyebrows innocently as he welcomed the interruption. "Hmm?"

"You're growing a beard?" Irene questioned and her intrigued eyes danced across his strong jawline.

Sherlock shrugged and his coat flowed with his movement as he casually waved it off. "It's for a case."

The woman grinned victoriously. "No, it isn't."

"It could be."

"_Isn't_."

Sherlock sighed in silent defeat as he gruffly breathed, "Well?"

"I prefer my detectives clean shaven."

"_Hmm_."

Her pale, sapphire eyes traveled up to the top of his styled, short curls and she remarked, "You cut your hair, too."

"It needed a trim."

Irene inclined her head slowly, but something in her gaze seemed to disagree with his claim. She boldly held his strong gaze. "Despite the scruff, you look good, Sherlock."

"As do you," the man smiled tightly and tried to think of some way to conclude his statement. Lost for words, he stepped around the woman into the infirmary room and let his gaze wander to Molly's comatose frame briefly before turning back around. Awkwardly, he pointed out, "You haven't changed a bit."

"It's only been weeks."

"Plenty time to change."

"_Evidently_," the brunette whispered and her eyes danced with amusement before she once more raised her mask and retreated from his company.

In an emotionless tune, Sherlock held her in place, "You still have a few things left at Baker Street, by the way."

"I'll come get it then."

"No rush."

The fair lady looked over the man's shoulder at the bed before she said, "I should leave you two alone. I've been here long enough. The nurses have grown rather tired of me."

"_A single rose_," the detective quickly nodded to the blood-red flower on the bedside table and frowned in realization as he turned to the woman who lingered in the open doorway. "When I woke up in the infirmary after being shot by Mary, there was a single red rose by my bedside. Was that…?"

"_Yes_… Who did you think it was from?"

"I don't know," the man shrugged like an overgrown child and muttered a low, "I thought it might have come with the decoration."

Irene lowered her head to cover the smile that crept upon her fair features. As she raised it once more, she effectively changed the subject, "Molly's doing better, you know. Only slightly, but her vitals have improved. Greg's here every day, of course, in fact he just popped off to buy some coffee now. He'll be back soon. …Have you talked to him lately?"

"Mm, not really…"

"He could use a friend."

"Probably not me, then," the tall man whispered as he glanced down at his comatose friend and ally. The steady beep of her monitor was all the reply he would get from her and his face fell as he exhaled wearily.

"_You're_ his friend, Sherlock," Irene disagreed strongly. "Just think about it. You'd do him an immense favour. More than you know. It's _his wife_ that's in a coma. We may not be, but _he is_ of the romantic kind, who lives by his heart. It's him it's truly sorry for in all this… not us."

Her words hit home and the man distantly nodded his head as he let her see past his guarded exterior for another second. He saw the woman's smile in the corner of his eyes as she turned to go, and something inside of him didn't want to see her leave just yet.

Without pondering it much, he stepped closer to her as he said, "…We're broken, aren't we?"

Irene stopped on the edge and glanced up at him. "What?"

"Together _and_ apart."

She smiled somberly and her red lips seemed the only light in a pale existence. "Neither of us are the glue."

Sherlock grinned tenderly and leaned in close to her. He stopped an inch away from her cheek as if remembering himself. His (dis)passionate breath tickled the side of her face as he hummed a gentle, "…_No_."

The man carefully turned and faced Molly again. As he glanced towards the door a second later, it was empty and the sentiment echoed inside his heart.

* * *

Not fifteen minutes later, Greg Lestrade returned to his wife's infirmary room. Sherlock looked up from his seat and squeezed Molly's hand a final time before he rose from his chair and allowed the grey-haired man access to her bedside.

"Sherlock," Greg huffed with an acknowledging nod as he sank into the seat and pressed the woman's slender hand between his own calloused ones.

The detective stood silently on the side line, observing the spectacle before him as if unable to connect with it fully. He was used to seeing Lestrade as a sturdy anchor, reliable in any storm. To see him this shattered… was perplexing, to say the least. Sherlock had no idea what to do or say to relieve the man's troubled heart.

"Did you see Irene on her way out?" Greg asked and his voice was hoarse and raspy with emotion.

"I did."

"She's been staying in our spare guestroom, you know," the policeman admitted with a grateful smile. "She insists she has nowhere else to go, but I think she just wants to keep an eye on me. She's a_ good friend."_

Sherlock tilted his head to the side. He wasn't surprised to hear the news, but still close to being touched by it. _The Woman_ had made herself an integral part of his social sphere, and couldn't hide her own affection to the people anymore. He knew she had a particularly soft spot for the married couple she'd helped bring together, whether she was willing to admit it or not.

"How've you been, Lestrade?"

The grey-haired man shrugged tiredly and swallowed before he managed, "Been better, I suppose. You?"

"Still on leave from Scotland Yard?"

"I need to be here for my wife," Greg half-snarled, half-pleaded as his eyes clouded over.

"I could… really use you at the police force," the curly-haired man argued as he walked around the bed to where he could gaze directly at the other man's face. "Your employees are incompetent idiots, but they're _your _employees – you hardly need me to tell you that. You're the only competent man at the whole of Scotland Yard."

Greg sighed and the heavy sound vibrated tensely through the air. "I'm really not in the mood for your… whatever this is. Work isn't important to me right now, but I don't expect you to understand that."

"I _do_ understand-"

"No, Sherlock!" the older man disagreed and shook his head slowly, as if growing really tired of his company. "You may understand how people act, but not _why_ – not deep down_. _You're not connected with your own feelings, so don't pretend to understand mine. _Please_."

"Well… Will you return to Scotland Yard? I need someone on the inside if I'm to get Lord Moran for… what he did to her."

"I want to avenge it, just as you do."

"Then _do _something about it. _Help me!_"

Greg shook his head once more. "Please don't come here and pretend to play on my heartstrings, when you only selfishly desire me back as an associate. We both know this is about the cases, and not actual concern."

"No, it is real," Sherlock frowned down at the beaten man. "My main concern is _you_ _and Molly_, not your work. I have come to consider you a _friend_, Greg. But that doesn't take away from the fact that you _are_ the only one I trust at Scotland Yard."

The other man's wide, coffee-colored eyes stared at the tall man and some clarity sparkled in the depths. For a long second, he was silent, before he murmured a low, "…You remembered my name!"

"Of course I did. _Do_."

"Bugger, really? You remembered?" the stunned man grimaced in amazement. "Thank you, Sherlock."

The detective frowned at the man's surprise and raised his chin high. "…For remembering your name?"

"_No_," The grey-haired man breathed with a hint of relief. A worn, but genuine, smile crossed his features as he shrugged. "But for that, too."

The detective nodded gently. "Does this mean… I can count on you?"

"Irene's been asking me to get some space from this place, too. Allow me some peace of mind…" the man's gaze lowered and his heartache carried into his voice as he admitted, "It's driving me insane, Sherlock. To sit here by her side day in and day out… and not even being able to talk to her, to see life sparkle in her eyes or simply to see her smile. Maybe I should return to duty for a while. But I just feel so selfish, you know?"

"As you, so keenly observed, I _don't_ understand," Sherlock grinned, "but I do know this: Molly wouldn't want you to put your life on hold for her. She wouldn't want that for any of us. It's some sentimental thing..."

Lestrade sniffled and wiped at a lone tear that had escaped its facial prison. "You're right."

The detective shoved his hands into his coat pockets as he turned to leave, but stopped on the threshold. He hesitated as he glanced back and opened his heart a fraction, "I'm not sure if it can motivate you, but… When I come to visit Molly, I always find I don't know what to say to her. I haven't a clue. Emotions and I don't really… I prefer to be out there – trying to do her justice in the only way I know how. So that when she awakens, I can tell her I got the man who did this to her."

Greg smiled in appreciation as he breathed, "You're a good man, Sherlock. A _good man_."

* * *

A few days later, Mrs Hudson wandered around the detective's flat as she prepared tea for the man. Sherlock was clad smartly for the day, in his favorite purple shirt, except for the wine-red robe that he lazily wore atop like a silent, private challenge against the rest of the world.

The man was standing by the window, playing a mellow tune on his violin, as time passed otherwise mutely. When he at last put away his instrument, the elder lady commented, "Lovely to hear some noise from your flat again, Sherlock. It's been so quiet up here for weeks now. For awhile there, I thought you'd _died_ again and that I had to amuse myself. For a woman my age, there's not much to do. I can only clean this place so many times, you know. Gets boring."

"Isn't that a Greek tragedy?" the detective muttered as he threw himself onto his sofa.

Mrs Hudson grimaced as she placed the tray with tea cups on the desk and glanced over at the man. "Irene always gave this place some life. Oh, I do miss her. It was so sad she had to leave. I know you miss her, too, Sherlock, even if you won't admit it. She lightened up your existence. We all saw it."

Afraid that the elderly woman wouldn't shut up if given leeway, the man hurriedly remarked in an emotionless tone, "We weren't actually in love, Mrs Hudson. It was purely sexual. As it was for you and Mr Hudson… or so you keep informing me."

"Oh, Sherlock…" the woman threw him an exasperated look as she headed for the stairs. As she started to descend, she muttered, "You're so incredibly clever, and yet so incredibly stupid. What you two shared was _nothing_ like what I had with my husband."

The man rolled his eyes as he sat up in a swirling move and listened as the sound of the creaking steps faded into silence. He heard the door open below and murmured voices greeting each other before another set of feet ascended towards 221 B. _Determined_ _and even, as if running like a clockwork._

"Hello, John," Sherlock called even before the man appeared in his peripheral view.

"Hey!" the blond man said as he stepped into the living room. He discarded his coat on the back of one of the armchairs and, as he turned back around, asked, "Are we ready to prepare for tonight's-"

"_Sch!_" the detective interrupted with an impatient frown. He held his hands steepled beneath his chin as he closed his eyes. "Wait a moment, will you, John?"

"Eh, sure. Yeah, of course. … _Why_?"

"I don't want to be overheard."

"By Mrs Hudson…?"

"_No_. By my _guest_," he said and smiled as he once more heard someone enter downstairs and move up the steps. He rose from his chair and stepped inside the kitchen area. Not thirty seconds later, Irene Adler entered the room with a feline grin directed at him.

Her sharp stilettos had given her away from the first step, yet Sherlock would have known it was her even if she wore comfortable loafers instead. She carried herself almost majestically, and it translated into her strong, floating steps.

As she stepped further into the kitchen area, her eyes flew across the familiar space. "At least this place hasn't changed much since last time. But, ah, look! You've shaved..." she said playfully. The detective sighed, but failed to remark, as he instead entered his bedroom and vanished out of sight.

From the living room, John cleared his throat in surprise. He was pleased to see her back at Baker Street, but shock didn't even cover how he felt about it. He hadn't expected this, considering how the 'relationship' had ended.

"I'm… glad you're here," the man said tentatively as his eyes tried to understand the moment correctly. "_Why_ are you here?"

"She came to get _this_," Sherlock muttered as he exited his bedroom once more with a small bag. He held it out for the woman and she accepted it with a grateful grin.

She raised her other hand and opened her ivory palm towards him. "This is yours, I believe."

The detective hesitantly eyed the golden pendant with the looking glass, before he took it back. "… Thank you."

John's eyes flew from the woman and back to the man a couple of times. Considering their bad break-up, he was both perplexed and still not stunned to see their casual, yet cold, treatment of the other. It was a new sort of dance between them, one that neither seemed fully comfortable in.

Irene's attention fluttered onward like a butterfly, and she stepped into the living room on keen legs. She faced the mind map and squinted up at the intricate puzzle. "Moran's case?"

"Yep," Sherlock breathed and carefully studied every emotion that flickered past in her eyes.

He saw something fly past in the windows to her soul, a recognition of a fact he couldn't quite translate in her eyes. It pissed him off and his lips were tightly drawn as he tried his hardest to see beyond her walls and into the truth he, too, needed to know.

After another second, Irene's gaze cleared and left no evidence behind, as she turned to the men with a faint smirk, "Well, I ought to leave. My business here is done."

The detective glanced down and remembered himself. He stepped forward quite forcefully and held out his arm almost mechanically. "Actually, I changed my mind. Keep it."

Irene raised a slender eyebrow as she reached out for the gift. "… I don't mind holding on to it for a while, I suppose."

"Hmm!" Sherlock hummed and stepped away from the woman in a brisk turn that mimicked a dancer's agility.

"_Goodbye,_" she said in a low voice that lingered in the air between them.

The detective glanced over his shoulder and said, "… Bye."

"See you around, Irene!" John chirped in as the mood seemed too gloomy all the sudden.

The brunette shared a kind smile with the blond doctor before she left the flat without another word, yet her presence seemed to linger in the room like the last rays of sunlight before the star descends below the horizon.

John's gaze flickered between the empty door frame and his friend. He licked his lips and dared to ask, "We will, won't we? See her around?"

Sherlock shrugged his eyebrows. "_Maybe_."

The blond man saw the emotions in his friend's body language as a tense silence descended in the wake of the woman's exit. "… You are aware she-"

"-manipulated me to end things? _Oh, yes_! I've realized that," the detective inclined his head as he turned back to the other man.

John frowned. "And you let her?"

"Clearly."

"_Why_?"

Sherlock exhaled as if he was quickly approaching the end of the line, and breathed, "Must I always spell out the obvious for you, John?"

"Well, what's it really about?" the other man's frown intensified as he glared up at the taller man. "You push her away, she pushes you away! You clearly care for each other, so what's the problem?! … Faint heart never won fair lady."

The taller man mirrored his friend's displeased face. "You've got to stop with the quotes when you insist on playing my psychiatrist. They're not adding anything of substance to the discussion."

"If they didn't, you wouldn't react so strongly," John challenged in return. "Maybe you're lying to yourself and to her… maybe you actually do love her. Who knows?"

"Obviously not you."

"_Nor you_."

The clever detective opened his mouth as if to retort, but no words came out. He seemed like an instrument unable to make sound, or a car unable to start, as he stood rooted in space, unable to do much of anything.

John took the moment to fume, "You know what you two are? A pair of destructive thrill-seekers… drawn together by your addictive, shared love for danger and misbehaving."

Sherlock was plainly in no mood to discuss it further as he pulled himself together and swirled around to face his mind map. His attentive, vibrant eyes glared up at the pictures and scribbles as if willing them to talk to him. In a dangerously low voice, he growled, "She saw it."

"Oh, what's wrong now?" the blond man rolled his eyes as he stepped up beside the man. "Saw what?"

"The connection, John!"

"What connection?"

"_I don't know_!"

"… And you lost me!"

Sherlock sighed slowly and impatiently explained, "There's another layer to this thing with Moran I don't see. I… overheard a meeting between my brother and Irene a little while ago. I believe he tried to hint at this connection between her and the Moran case, but she didn't see it then. She saw the connection now, however, when presented with the mind map."

"… That's why you invited her here? To gauge her reaction?"

In a dramatic flare, the detective waved his hands towards the wall. "Of course it was! I was hoping she wouldn't see any connection, because then my brother would've been wrong!"

"So why didn't you ask Irene about it?"

"_Well_…" Sherlock grimaced and left it at that, as if no other words were needed to explain his predicament.

John closed his eyes tight and tiredly muttered, "My head hurts…"

"Let's drop it for now," the other man agreed in a low mutter. "I believe we were going to plan an attack anyway. Shall we get on with it?"

"Yes, please. What have you found about Moran since last time?"

Sherlock reveled in the attention as he explained it all to his blogger. "In my digging, I've acquired information about Moran's new 'network'. Not the North Koreans, as I first suspected, but a small gang that delves in international criminal activities. They're protecting him, and are spreading the word on his criminal agenda. No details about the terrorist attack, but the plan to take Moriarty's place is widely known. It would seem Moran has quite the following. Many loyal to Moriarty, are returning to form under Moran's guidance."

"So we need to stop this bad for many reasons," John murmured.

"Yes," the detective nodded once. "Now, luckily for us, I also found out today where this network is keeping him out of harms way; in the abandoned _Millenium Mills_. Security wise, it's a bad venue. We'll easily get inside, and as long as we're not caught by his numerous, armed bodyguards… it won't be a problem bringing Sebastian Moran down once and for all."

The blond man inclined his head as he glanced up at the mind map. "And we're doing this tonight?"

"That's the plan. You did bring your gun, as I requested?"

"Yeah, of course."

Sherlock grinned. "Then let's get to it!"

* * *

A few hours after nightfall, the crime solving duo ducked low as they ran around the giant building in the silent docklands of London. On stealthy feet and with shallow breaths, they avoided the guards that watched the perimeter in twilight. Thankfully, they had the cover of night on their side and few lamps lit their perilous journey.

The detective led the team over to a smashed window and helped hoist the shorter man inside before pulling himself inside.

John withdrew his gun and nodded once to the taller man as he easily slipped into his role. Silently, they snuck through the dark building in search of signs of life. It didn't take long before they could make out voices, echoing between the stone walls further ahead, and slowed their advance. They waited until there was silence once more as they darted into the room ahead. It was, much like most rooms on this level, filled with square stone pillars and sack slides through the roof and dusty floor. The bottom half of the pillars were in a darker shade, illuminated by moonlight and the odd lamp or two scattered across the room.

Sherlock took the lead once more as his feet moved almost mutely across the floor. John followed close behind, with square shoulders and attentive ears and eyes for anything that might come at them. As they moved toward their goal, their shadows were long and looming across the ground.

Just as John passed a pillar about halfway through the room, he heard something beside him and saw a figure in his peripheral view, but it was too late to act. He felt something dark and metallic press against the back of his skull, and closed his eyes firmly.

A dark voice whispered threateningly from the shadows, "_Stop_!"

* * *

_To be continued…_


	13. Dead End

_Disclaimer: Nope! Nothing yet!_

_A/N; As always, flashbacks in italics._

* * *

**Chapter 13: Dead End **

John's eyes remained closed as he tried to keep his breathing regular and steady. They'd been in worse binds before; a gun to the head was no random occurrence in this line of business, after all. Still, adrenaline coursed through his battle-worn veins like a drug as a small portion of his mind prepared itself for the afterlife. He was an ex-soldier: he believed in being prepared, even for the worst of circumstances, and this was no exception to the rule.

His thoughts reached out to his wife and daughter, safe at home, while a fleeting thought searched for his best friend. Sherlock had no significant other, nor child, nor anyone else who waited for him to come home. There was Irene Adler, of course, but not even The Fates knew what part she was meant to play in the detective's life. His heart broke slightly at the thought of their pointless death all too soon for the both of them.

"_Do you mind?_"

The blond man cracked one eye open as he glared at the detective ahead who had so angrily spoken. The curly-haired man shrugged his eyebrows and seemed infinitely more stressed for time than afraid for his mortal soul. The doctor frowned.

His mind started rewinding the events that had led them to this precarious moment and the voice itself who had told him to stop. The more he thought about its melody, the more familiar the voice sounded and clearer the picture became.

As the gun lowered, the short man turned on hesitant feet, and found his wife smiling brightly up at him only a few feet ahead. She was dressed in black-ops clothes, with a black hat atop her blonde hair. It was a far cry from the nurses outfit he was used to seeing her in, yet clothes she seemed infinitely more comfortable in.

"Jesus! _Mary_?!" he breathed as he felt his heart take off in full sprint. "You could have shot me! I could have shot _you_!"

The fair woman shrugged as she holstered the weapon. "You could have _tried_, dear."

John squinted as his brain kicked in and tried to process the situation. His eyes danced across the shadows of the abandoned room before once more settling on his wife. "Why… are you here?"

"Same reason as you, I wager."

"And what about Elizabeth?!"

The woman waved off his concern with a reassuring wink. "Mrs Hudson is babysitting. Our daughter's _fine_."

John blinked as his jaw dropped. That they were both in life-threatening danger this fine night seemed either not to have hit the woman, or a fact she devalued for the sake of adventure. A possible future in which their daughter was parentless seemed a remote issue. Then again, a little voice at the back of his head whispered, he hadn't done much better. He'd gone into the dangerous situation without giving his wife as much as a heads up. Normalcy, it seemed, kept evading their eventful life with a tip of the hat and a casual wink as it passed by, heading for ordinary people down the road.

"_Mary_!"

"_Jo-ohn_!"

The coat-clad detective took a slow step towards them as his observant eyes scanned the room almost entirely bathed in darkness. His gaze danced towards the married couple briefly as he spoke in a short tone, "Before you two continue with your domestic spat, let me clear some things. Evidently, the news of Moran's whereabouts had spread to you, Mary – possibly via your old connections, but somehow I highly doubt that. You're present to take him out, nonetheless. Not surprising considering your charming past. But… you've changed. You're not that person anymore and haven't been for years. This isn't like it was with Magnussen. Neither John nor you are directly targeted this time, so there's not actually an incentive for you to behave like this on your own. … But you're not working alone, are you? Tell me, Mary. Are you here by yourself?"

"She's here with me."

The trio turned to the source of the low, daring voice further away. As Irene stepped into the moonlight, wearing identical clothes to Mrs Watson, only Dr Watson looked taken aback, and seemed to seriously consider putting a bullet in all his friends.

"Is this a joke? Is this _actually_ happening? Should I expect the _bloody_ ghost of King Hamlet to jump out next?! Is anyone _not _here?!"

The brunette stepped over to join the trio. She stood on the detective's right and shared a glance with the tall man. Slowly, Irene revealed, "_Moran_."

Sherlock exhaled in amusement and closed his eyes slowly. "_The irony_…"

"So he's gone?" the blond man frowned and sighed as his shoulders slumped low. "He got away?"

"It's _Beirut_ all over," Irene huffed and Sherlock inclined his head in mute agreement.

"…What happened in Beirut?" Mary asked as she looked at the ex-couple.

"Some other time," the detective grimaced as he turned to face the doorway to their left. His face looked like that of a watchdog as he stretched his neck and stood silent guard as he let the others carry on the conversation without a second thought.

"Fine," the blond man agreed and glared first at his wife and then at the brunette. His gaze wandered between them as he ordered in a short tone, "_Explain, please_."

Mary tried to fib her way out of the precarious situation with a feeble shrug. "Oh, I don't-"

John begrudgingly interrupted, "None of us is getting out of here until you tell me anyway. Or until _he_ tells me." – he angrily pointed up at his best friend – "Let's just… not play this game of yours. Let's get straight to it."

"Alright. I'll explain it then," the blonde woman breathed and sincerity slithered into her warm tone.

As if awaiting the cue, the detective turned back in a fluid motion. "No need, I-"

"Sherlock, you'd better pipe it for a few minutes," John warned with a dangerously low tone of voice that bordered on plain fury. Embittered by the secrecy, the blond man smiled tightly and glared down his wife. "Deflate your pride and let the women speak. You don't have to show off your amazing deductions about how we all ended up here tonight. I want to hear it from them! From Mary!"

"But, I-"

"_No!_"

"… it would have been faster my way," the detective huffed, rolled his eyes and turned his back to the others in a sign of childish petulance.

* * *

_As the bell chimed, Mary strolled over to the front-door to answer the unexpected beckoning. Her baby daughter sat safely on her hip as the woman opened the door. Mary's eyebrows quickly rose to meet her hairline before a smile spread on her fair features as she remembered herself._

"_Look who it is, Elizabeth. It's Aunt Irene. Yay!"_

_The brunette grinned slyly as she lingered outside in winter's cold embrace. With an inquiring voice, she said, "May I come inside? Am I intruding?"_

"_Nonsense, you're always welcome here. Come in," Mary assured and lead the other woman into the heart of her house. She settled the baby in a crib before she waved her guest over to the beige sofa. Glad to be free of the little weight, the blonde sank onto the comfortable cushions and nodded for her friend to join her._

_Irene perched on the other end of the couch, her seated posture somewhere between relaxation and flight-mode. An odd combo, yet she carried it with strong shoulders and a devilish sparkle in her pale, piercing eyes._

"_How are you, dear?" Mary asked when the other woman obviously didn't fully feel at home._

_A faint smile flew across Irene's blood-red lips as she turned to face the blonde. "Molly's doing better, you know."_

"_That's good."_

"_Very."_

"… _But __I meant-"_

"_I know," the brunette nodded as she swept a lock of hair behind her ear. "I'd rather not talk about that part."_

"_Sometimes you have to, Irene," the blonde woman shrugged and her voice filled with sincere compassion. "I'm a nurse, not a shrink, but I know it takes a toll on the body as well as the soul to go through what you have. It's a lot to handle, dear."_

"_I don't need psychological aid. Not my cup of tea."_

"_No," Mary hummed in amusement as her eyes sparkled with knowledge, like clouds disapparating to reveal the clear-blue skies. "You seem like the type of person who reacts much like our dear Sherlock Holmes; disappearing beneath a pile of intricate puzzles to protect your heart. For him, it's__ murder cases-"_

"… _murder__..."_

_Both women stopped mute and their heads whipped in the direction of the crib, where the baby was happily reciting the same word over and over, almost like a mantra for the soul._

_Slowly, Mary turned her wide, unblinking eyes back to her company and breathed, "Let's not tell my husband about that. Her first word was 'Mama', do you hear?"_

"_Loud and clear," the brunette nodded and seemed to struggle not to laugh. She covered her smile behind a cough and settled more comfortably between the cushions as she leaned one arm over the backrest._

"_Oh, please, distract me," the blonde muttered as her worried gaze wandered back to her baby who seemed to have grown infinitely more in the past minute than her whole life up to this point. The girl gurgled happily, seemingly lost in her own little world, unaware of the meaning of her very first word._

"_I didn't come here to talk about __me_," _Irene grinned. "In fact, I had another intriguing matter in mind. One that involves you in particular. As a matter of fact, I believe, it's something only __you__ can help me with."_

"_Hmm?" the blonde shrugged her eyebrows as her curiosity was lit like a wick in the dark of night. "What's that?_

"_Mary, would you like to…"_

"_Yeah?"_

_Irene squinted her eyes as if to better gauge her friend's coming reaction. "… go rogue with me. I want to solve the case with Moran and bring him down, to honor Molly. I've learned of his position from my connections and I believe we can do this behind the guys' backs. It's not that I don't believe they can't do it, but I believe we can, too. __Before they do__. With your past as an intelligence agent and my training to be a detective consultant… Well, I think we could do wonders of delinquency if we put our heads together."_

_Mary's eyes were once more wide as saucers and her face blank as she said, "You want me to go out there and stop a highly dangerous man from committing murder? Risking my life, with my __nine month daughter__ at home?! Who will watch over her?!"_

_The brunette suavely suggested, "… Mrs Hudson?"_

_Without missing a beat, Mary's face transformed to warmth and joy as she nodded, "Yeah, alright then."_

_Irene smirked over at her friend. The two women had only recently started seeing each other as friends on equal footing, but there was something so easy to read about the blonde woman, that still made Irene feel she could trust her. Still, Mary wasn't without surprises, which the brunette was only now starting to fully realize._

_The woman leaned forward and explained, "Sebastian Moran is kept hidden by his new network. He'll only be vulnerable for a few more days, as they're planning on moving him somewhere safer. We need to strike tonight, Mary."_

_The blonde shrugged before her expression suddenly went blank. "Wait, what about my husband? John will be home soon. He might be suspicious."_

"_Doubtful, don't you think? Either way, I just met him at Baker Street. It seemed Sherlock and he would be working a case tonight. Keeps them busy. Which is exactly what we need tonight."_

"_There's more to this, isn't there?" the blonde challenged. "Why not share this with Sherlock, have __him__ help you? I'm quite positive he would do everything to stop Moran for the same noble reason as you are."_

"_I want to keep him out of this for… reasons."_

"_Let's get ready then," Mary said as she rose from the sofa and steered them out of the room. She squeezed the brunette's shoulder and whispered, "Bless you for asking. I've been dying to get out there again, to tell you the truth."_

_Irene smiled and a hint of warmth touched her cool eyes. "Any time."_

* * *

John tilted his head to the side as his wife finished the tale. He didn't know what to say to any of it and simply managed a meek, "Really? _Really_?!"

"It's the truth, John," Sherlock muttered from the sidelines. "They had the same idea as we did. Simple enough plan."

"Terrible execution, though," Irene cooed and her eyes danced with amused irritation.

"Plans tend to be when the target eludes the indicated end," the detective pointed out in a dry voice. Something undefinable flashed in his eyes as he leaned closer to the woman and hissed, "You're not supposed to be here. I didn't want you here!"

The brunette refrained from rolling her eyes, as she retorted in a similar voice, "Likewise!"

"Hold on… Is this secrecy all related to your relationship? You didn't… break up with each other, to protect the other while lying about the cause, did you? Without knowing that the other was doing the exact same thing…?" something in Mary's intrigued voice seemed to pointedly mock her friends, and the implication was not lost on anyone.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "_No_."

Irene shrugged. "Certainly not."

"You really are mirror images of each other, aren't you?"

In the silence that followed the blunt question, the quartet could suddenly make out noises from further ahead. Clanking sounds and commotion echoed between the thick, stone walls from somewhere out of sight. Loud voices echoed in the shadows and made its way even to the quartet's hideout. Suddenly an alarm started blasting through the entire Millennium Mills, sounding like a catastrophic cacophony of fear and panic.

"Something's going down," Sherlock's voice vibrated through the air with intrigue and exhilaration as he listened closer. "The criminal network is under attack. _This is rather fun_!"

"We really shouldn't stay here chatting away, should we?" John muttered as he raised his gun slowly.

Without giving even a word of warning, Irene sped off in the direction of the alarming noises. With an amused breath, the detective swiftly sprinted after her. The married couple exchanged an exasperated look before following their friends obediently, with their weapons drawn.

* * *

A few rooms ahead, a red lamp at the top of a wall blinked like a menacing, all-seeing eye in the dark, while the drilling alarm beeped with more and more fervor. _Intruders! Murderers! Get out while you can!_ It seemed to shout, louder and louder with each glaring beep that pierced the detective's ears.

Sherlock stopped his advance as the blinking light gave him a chance to properly get a quick overview of the room. It was mainly filled with large, wooden cases, labeled with different destinations and with plain warnings. It was no trouble figuring out its contents even by a mere glance; clearly this was used as a holding place for illegally, smuggled weapons.

As the tall detective looked about for the woman, something suddenly came up behind him. Something sharp pressed at the back of his knee, making his leg buckle. When his leg started to give out, a smaller body pushed him down to the ground behind one of the wooden cases and hovered over him.

The detective struggled a second under Irene's impressively strong grip as she leaned close and whispered, "Sch…"

"This isn't the time-"

"_Sch!_" her wide eyes frowned down at him and at last he begrudgingly relaxed beneath her grip.

Hidden out of sight, the couple heard steps approaching, the sound echoing ominously in the deep. Within seconds the noise had reached the chamber and two separate voices filled the tense air.

"Sean?" the first voice asked. It was a young man's voice, clearly inexperienced in every sense of the word, and filled with curiosity and trepidation. "Are you sure he's done for?"

"Of course I am," the other grumpily breathed with a thick Irish accent. "I saw it with me own eyes. The boss put a bullet between his eyes. Right _there_!"

"_Jesus_. ...What'll happen to the undertaking now?"

"Dunno, mate. Let's just clear the perimeter. We leave in a couple of minutes, and something tells me we don't want to be late to the cars."

Sherlock heard Irene's erratic breaths speed up near his ear as the men came closer to the box they were hiding behind. Instinctively, he grabbed for her hand and squeezed it tight in his own, bigger one. The message was clearly received as Irene immediately held her breath and fell quiet as a mouse under his watchful gaze. Time passed excruciatingly slow as they waited for the scales to tip one way or the other.

At last, the men were satisfied with their lookout and disappeared in the same direction they had come from.

The woman exhaled slowly as she glanced at the man beneath her. She slowly rose on adrenaline-filled legs and hesitantly glanced above the edge of the case, only to find the room empty once more. Irene nodded once to the detective and he rose to stand beside her, releasing her hand in the process. He brushed dust from his thick coat as he glanced down at the ex-dominatrix.

"You didn't have to do that, you know."

"No? I thought saving your life was what I did," Irene cooed in a low whisper and met his gaze with a confident smirk.

"Ha! I was under the impression it was the other way around," Sherlock frowned. "Either way, I wasn't in need of saving now."

"Thanks to me you weren't," the woman agreed. "If I hadn't stepped in, they would have caught you. Or both of us."

The tall man huffed in disagreement and opened his mouth to retaliate. He was interrupted, however, by the arrival of John and Mary, who snuck over to them on swift, quiet feet.

"You guys okay?" the blond man questioned as his worried eyes traveled over the other two in search of injuries.

"_Yes_," Sherlock quickly spat in a dull tone.

"We seem to be caught in a power keg. We should get out," Mary whispered and her eyes danced with anxious worry for them all. "Before it's too late. We don't know who these assailants are, but I'm guessing they'll take us out if they get the chance. The same goes for Moran's network. Fun's over."

Irene glanced at the door their fiendish company had stepped through only minutes ago and then back up at the detective. Something flashed in her gaze that told the man that she had realized the meaning of the men's words just as easily as he had. She grimaced slightly as she asked, "No... We have to see if it's true, don't we?"

The tall man acquiesced with a slight inclination of the head and waved his hands for them all to continue onward.

* * *

The quartet lingered in the shadows a few minutes longer, working their way to the heart of the derelict mill factory in order to figure out the source of the unexpected attack. After a while, they heard several cars hum to life outside the building as the interior fell dead silent once more. The beep of the alarm had seized, as if realizing its panic was futile, and the red light diminished to a peaceful existence. All that remained was once more a few lamps and the moon to light their trail.

Sherlock led the way as he followed the clues of the intruders steps and activity. At last, he found the doorway he was looking for and nodded towards it with a stiff neck, "It's in there."

"What is?" John asked.

"I'm not sure..."

As a unit, the four people stepped inside and while Mary and John raised their gun just in case, neither Sherlock nor Irene bothered with the precaution. They knew the people who had abruptly appeared for unknown reasons had disappeared just as sudden, taking with them everyone in the building. Not a single living soul seemed to have remained behind, except for the quartet who'd broken inside.

Irene stepped into the center of the cold, empty stone room and towards the one thing that rested upon the hard floor. It was the body of a man clad in a dark suit that lay bathed in the pale glow of the moon outside. Had it not been for the pool of blood around his head and the vacant eyes, he'd looked impeccable and pure in an ever murkier and unclean world.

"_Moran,_" the brunette breathed as she got a good look at the man's empty face. There was a hole in his forehead that told the truth of his demise and confirmed her suspicions. "So he returned...which was his big mistake."

"What? He's dead?" John questioned in a contemplative frown and stepped over to her side. As he saw the unexpected sight of their dead enemy, he faltered for a second. His instincts soon kicked in and he knelt beside the man to feel for a pulse. It was pointless, of course, but still gave him a satisfying feeling of termination to the whole ordeal that had haunted them for over a month.

Sherlock glared down at the dead body as he said, "It would seem someone wasn't too keen on letting him take Moriarty's place at the top of the food chain. Probably a criminal boss of smaller significance that Moran failed to see as a threat. Being the man he was, I suspect Moran took his secrets to the grave, including the plans on the terrorist attack."

The blond man glanced up at his best friend. His confusion radiated from him in equal measures to his relief as he cautiously asked, "So… it's over?"

"Sometimes you catch a break," Irene shrugged as she met the detective's eyes across the space while the dead body lay in the divide between them.

"Oh, thank God for that..." John closed his eyes tight and rose from the ground.

"Come on," Mary placed a hand on her husband's shoulder and tugged gently. "Let's go home. Let's go back to normal."

* * *

_To be continued._


	14. Unlocked

_Disclaimer: I own nothing of Sherlock Holmes._

_A/N: Chapter may be seen as another filler (?) - but if you've read SW you know that even the fillers are important for the story._

* * *

**Chapter 14: Unlocked**

Without the pressure of Moran's impending terrorist plan looming on the horizon, time passed surprisingly swift and Christmas tide was soon upon London. A thin layer of whitest snow covered the major city like a blanket even as the days grew shorter and shorter. In an uncommon turn of events, Sherlock once more invited John, Mary and Elizabeth to join the Holmes' family for a quiet celebration in the countryside.

John had to admit, he had his suspicions about the whole ordeal. He couldn't quite shake the memories of last Christmas and the act of murder Sherlock had committed to save his friend and Mary. Still, with Moran terminated there existed no actual threat and John's mind was trying to persuade his body to relax. This was just like any other Christmas, after all, – or as normal as any holiday in the Holmes' family home could ever be. Still, that the great detective had a hidden agenda went without saying. He just wasn't sure what yet.

Presently, the blond man was seated in an armchair in the small, homily kitchen, watching Mrs Holmes chide her sons for being in touch too little yet another year. As the elderly lady pinched Mycroft's cheek as if he was an actual kid, John had to hide his laugh behind a fake cough.

The detective used the window of opportunity to move away in a fluid motion and came to stand at other end of the table, where he was safe out of reach. He looked down at the crowded tabletop, filled with all the holiday foods and sweets he'd grown up with. At length, he looked up and innocently inquired, "No punch?"

His father came up beside him and threw him an amused glance. Dryly, the old man said, "Not this year, Sherlock."

"Why do you I have a feeling last Christmas _still_ wasn't the weirdest experienced in the Holmes' residence?" John asked as he rose from his seat to join the men.

The eldest Holmes patted the younger man's back and knowingly smiled. "_Far from it_."

"...I thought this wasn't an annual thing, though?"

"It's not. It was Sherlock's idea this year, too."

John leaned close and mock-whispered under his breath, "… And you thought that was safe considering last year?"

"Not at all. But he's my son."

"Ah…" Watson nodded slowly and watched the old man walk over to help his wife with the last Christmas decorations - bright lights wrapped around some green foliage - at the other end of the room. "Does anyone have the time?"

Mycroft glanced down at his wrist watch and despairingly sighed like a petulant infant. "Dear God... it's barely three o'clock."

The doctor glanced up at his best friend and said in a low voice, "You wouldn't happen to know why my wife and daughter are running late, do you? Mary wouldn't say why, other than that she was doing you a _favour_."

"Mm, yes," Sherlock hummed and his eyes flickered across the mince pies before him, as if trying to downplay the whole thing to oblivion. "She's bringing another guest."

John frowned and shifted on his feet. "… Who? Oh! Irene?"

The detective inclined his head as he grabbed a cup of eggnog and slowly sipped it as he casually stepped around his friend and over to the window, where he took solitary watch gazing out at the green and white view.

The thoughts ran wild in the blond man's head as he processed the new information. He knew the ex-couple had barely spoken since they had found Moran's dead body. Heck, he thought they'd all but lost contact out of sheer cowardice after their break-up. Either way, he wasn't going to let the truth slide. He joined the man by the windows and cleared his throat as he gazed outside, "Does this mean you're back together…?"

The tall man still refrained from commenting as he exhaled and once more sipped from the cup, pretending to be either deaf or dumb. His fingers reached up to play with the colorful Christmas lights wrapped around the window and he seemed consumed by the task, like a cat with a new toy. John couldn't stop his grin as he saw through his friend's ploy and snidely remarked, "So… does this mean you're engaged now?"

Sherlock's eyes widened as he did a double take and nearly dropped his cup. "_What_?"

"There was an engagement ring involved when you were last together, wasn't there? I do seem to recall one."

The taller man rolled his eyes exasperatedly. "We're not even-"

From the other end of the room, Mrs Holmes' voice filled the jovial, homily air and cut off whatever the detective had been about to say. "_Engaged_? Our Sherlock? Oh, heavens be praised!"

"So _that's_ why you wanted us all together for Christmas!" Mr Holmes joined the joyous choir as the couple walked over to their youngest son to embrace him fondly. Sherlock grimaced but silently let them show their affection openly, though he returned neither hug even when they tightened their loving grip. "Oh, my boy!"

Willingly remaining behind, Mycroft rolled his eyes and muttered a low, "For the love of-"

"_Mikey!_ Language!" his mother swiftly bit back with a devilish fire to her pale eyes. The storm in her orbs vanished in a flash as she beamed up at her other son again. She patted his cheek gently as she said, "You know, I wish you'd called to let us know, at least. But it doesn't really matter. I knew you'd come around, sooner or later... Will she be joining us today?"

Sherlock looked like a small child as he gazed into his mother's eyes and searched for words. Something reluctant passed by in the windows to his soul, but it was soon repressed by a stronger, more prominent, emotion and the sound of his sigh filled the room momentarily.

Before he could say anything, the front door flew open and Mary's happy voice called out, "Hello? We're _finally_ here. We didn't miss Christmas, did we?"

The family, with John close behind, quickly dropped everything to greet the new arrivals. All of them, except for Mycroft who lingered unenthusiastic in the background, crowded into the hallway. Mary brushed some snow from her coat-clad shoulders as she smiled warmly at them all, the baby settled comfortably on her hip. John flew forward to relieve his wife of the small load and kissed his daughter's forehead as the girl started mumbling into his green-and-red jumper.

The blonde removed her coat and stepped aside to let the other woman enter. Irene removed her fur hat and though she was evidently in a new, unfamiliar territory, she kept a cool exterior as her pale lips grinned at them all. Her eyes connected with the detective's and the man saw her unspoken question. It seemed everyone wanted to know why she was present today, but Sherlock stayed behind as his parents hurried to greet their lovely, new visitor.

"Welcome, dear. Is this beautiful woman…?" Mrs Holmes trailed off as she glanced back up at her son.

"_Yes_. This is Irene Adler," Sherlock said as he rushed over and placed one arm protectively around her shoulders and held her close to his own body. "My… _fiancée_."

"_Hmm_? Mm," she managed and inclined her head with a widening grin as she played along without causing a scene or breaking character. The detective silently exhaled. He'd have to explain this later, but at least she knew when not to misbehave. A character trait of hers he was especially fond of at the moment.

"It's so lovely to meet you, dear," Mr Holmes greeted and pressed her hand in his own as if they were old friends already. It was a warmth the woman was unaccustomed to, and she could merely mirror his kind smile. Something lively glimmered in his eyes and she certainly saw the resemblance between father and son. "Sherlock's told us _nothing_ about you, so I'm afraid you'll have to do the presentation yourself."

"That's alright. He tends to not tell me everything either," the woman remarked as the detective wordlessly helped her with her pale coat and scarf. As he stepped towards the closet, she turned back to the older couple. "I don't know much about you, I mean."

"Well, come inside and get warm first, then we can get to know each other properly. Dinner's a few hours away, but there's some bread if you're hungry," Mr Holmes promised before his bright eyes landed on the baby girl in her father's arms. He leaned closer and breathed, "And look at this precious girl! She's the spitting image of her beautiful mother!"

"And we're all grateful for that!" John chipped in with a laugh.

"Flattery will get you very far with both Watson girls, Mr Holmes," Mary smiled as she followed the older couple into the kitchen.

Sherlock and Mycroft, however, had meanwhile disappeared in different directions of their old home without a word of warning. John wagered a guess that either one of them (or both) was bumming a smoke in the backyard already.

The man felt a hand on his sleeve and turned back to the slim brunette beside him. The woman's brow furrowed slightly but her eyes still sparkled in amusement as she slowly asked, "… I've missed something, haven't I?"

John snorted and nodded in the direction of the kitchen. "Tea?"

"_Please_."

* * *

An hour later, the novelty of the unprecedented news had settled in the Holmes' residency and everything had turned back to its usual Christmas calm. The families joined together this day had settled in different places of the house, simply relaxing and enjoying the remaining hours of day light.

Irene reclined in an armchair in the cozy living room. The fire was lit and offered a soothing warmth and sound to match the day, and lulled her into a feeling of security as she pondered the unusual moment. It had been a long time since she'd celebrated Christmas with anyone, least of all family.

The brunette held a steaming cup of tea in one hand and a large book - _The Dynamics of Combustion_ by M.L Holmes - in her other. She was almost transfixed by it, having realized that the mathematical treatise was written by Mrs Holmes herself. She wasn't surprised, per se - the whole thing rather explained where Sherlock and Mycroft got their impressive talents from. Still, it was mesmerizing to see both similarities and differences between the children and their mother.

The elderly woman in question was standing in the middle of the room, rocking the sleeping baby in her arms slowly, while she hummed an old lullaby. The room was otherwise empty of people at the moment.

"You look very contemplative, Ms Adler."

The woman blinked and remembered herself. She set aside her cup as she leaned forward and said, "I'm sorry, Mrs Holmes-"

"-Minnie."

"… _Minerva_, yes. This is all so ordinary, you know. I wasn't expecting it."

"It's true… my sons inherited my mind capacity," the older woman smiled knowingly and tender affection lit up her pale eyes. "When I was young, people told me I had a very promising future ahead. That I could have anything I chose... and they were right. They just didn't know it. Being a mathematician wasn't my cup of tea. I wanted _more. _Choosing my William was _exactly _what I wanted. And my boys, all three of them… I've never regretted it. We've had our ups and downs - just ask the boys - but what family hasn't?"

_The woman_ exhaled slowly and distantly said, "So you chose _love_, then."

Mrs Holmes' keen eyes met hers and with a grin, she cooed, "As, it seems, my son has for you."

Irene's face faltered briefly and she reached for her tea cup once more to cover the lapse.

* * *

Sherlock quickly whipped around and hid his cigarette behind his coat-clad back when he heard the door open. He relaxed when he saw Irene put on her own coat and head out to join him by the gate in the garden.

"Thought you were my mother," he explained himself with a tight grin and turned back to the view of the countryside as she stopped beside him. He puffed his cigarette slowly and felt the nicotine enter his system with a familiar kick. He watched the smoke tendrils ascend and fade into the diminishing light of day as all tension just followed suit.

"And I thought you'd given up smoking," the woman commented lightly.

Sherlock shrugged. "It's the holidays…"

The woman ducked her head as she laughed gently and leaned her arms against the stone wall. Her eyes remained on the horizon and she watched the sun slowly settle behind the tree tops further away, as if going to sleep in its natural crib.

The man watched her quietly for a few seconds before he cleared his throat and said, "Sorry I referred to you as my fiancee earlier. I couldn't stop them, so I thought playing along was the best tactic until we could talk. If it's any consolation, they like you. Could you-"

"I don't mind playing along for your parents, Sherlock."

"Oh... _Thank you_."

She licked her lips slowly and turned to gaze up at him. "I was wondering, however, why you invited me here? Your call yesterday caught me by surprise."

Not missing a beat, Sherlock retorted, "Yet you acquiesced."

Without taking the bait, Irene pushed for her own agenda. "What's the purpose?"

"That we all deserve a calm Christmas day after everything we've been through?" the man suggested. "I did invite Lestrade, too, but he didn't want to leave his wife."

Irene frowned and her confusion seemed to take the better of her. "... Fibbing?"

The tall man shrugged as he snuffed out his cigarette and leaned his back against the wall next to the woman. He remained silent for such a long time, Irene was certain she'd never get her answer, but his vibrating voice cut through the chill air before long, "_Redbeard_."

The frown on the woman's face slowly increased as she tried to read him. She'd never seen him like this and was, for once, caught without a key to solve him. "… Pardon?"

"Redbeard. He was my dog when I was young. When he got old my parents put him down. I was about eleven years old. He was the last creature I cared for before John entered my life a… while later."

Irene mouthed a low "Oh…" and Sherlock saw the wheels turn in her head. Realization after realization flew past in her sapphire eyes and the man wondered if he hadn't made the wrong call, after all. It was too late now,though, and he'd crossed a point he wasn't sure how to come back from.

The woman raised her gaze to hold his captive and found she didn't know what to say. He'd brought her to his family home to give her a glimpse into his heart. She couldn't quite believe it. Sherlock Holmes was going the extra mile to explain, in his own roundabout way, how he'd become the man who was standing before her now.

"I know it sounds silly to an outsider, but-"

"Not at all, Sherlock. Not one bit," she smiled but the affection was soon wiped away as she glanced back at the house and said, "I talked to your mother… I… You and Mycroft blame her for choosing love over intellect, don't you?"

The curly-haired man grimaced. "Not blame. But we could try a lifetime... and still not understand it."

"Yes, I had rather figured," The woman shrugged her eyebrows and withdrew from him mentally, while a cold grin spread upon her lips. "…Know when you are beaten, then."

"I didn't mean-"

"_Don't_," she interrupted and watched as he closed his mouth. "I believe I've overstayed my welcome. I'll leave London shortly after New Year's Eve."

The man gazed down at her for a long second. Emotions passed by in his eyes; tenderness, concern and regret. If anything, it was equivalent to an embrace, and defined both their closeness and inevitable distance. It was only present for a few seconds before the emotions vanished behind his detached façade and he breathed, "That's probably for the best, yes. I'll keep you updated about Molly, of course."

"I'd appreciate that," she said and pushed away from the wall before her own emotions could cage her. She stepped onto the path and towards the house.

"Listen…" Sherlock's low, rumbling voice stopped her and she glanced back at him over her shoulder. He offered her a meek shrug, looking like a lost boy in the wilderness. "Everything I said, it was just…"

"I know."

The man nodded and watched her disappear back inside. With a deep sigh, Sherlock shrugged off his unaccustomed feelings and felt his walls rise stronger than before with each inhale of winter air he drew. He turned to gaze at the view once more and wasn't surprised to hear the door open a minute later.

He glanced down as John came up to stand beside him, holding himself with chin held high and shoulders strong.

"What happened?" the blond man asked and decided to take a poke at his friend in good humor, "Not getting back together…?"

The other exhaled slowly. "Nope."

John's gaze lingered on his friend's strong, stoic profile for a second. He wasn't sure what he was hearing, but cautiously tested his theory, "Was that what you _wanted_? ... I'm sorry, Sherlock."

"No need to be."

"You've come a long way, you know."

Sherlock grimaced and made a disagreeing noise from the back of his throat. "Not in the mood, John."

The shorter man inclined his head and let it slide. "… Want some eggnog?"

"Sure. As long as it isn't spiked," the taller man said with a wicked smirk.

John exhaled in amusement and patted his friend's shoulder. "I'll get some. Wait here."

"Thank you."

The blond man lingered a few steps from the door and glanced over at his friend's strong back. "… What are best friends for?"

* * *

A week into January, Irene found herself prepared to take the plunge. The day before she planned on leaving London, she found herself taking a guided tour of Buckingham Palace. The young guide led them from hall to hall, explaining about the extravagant luxury of the interior designs as well as the intriguing history contained within the same walls.

"Originally known as Buckingham House, it was actually the Duke of Buckingham who ordered the construction of the mansion in 1706. It became a royal mansion in 1760, when George III acquired it for his wife. It didn't, however, become the official residence of the royal family until the ascension of Queen Victoria in 1837."

Irene felt her mind wander as she glanced about at the chandeliers and lavish designs. She'd spent most of her adolescent life in the city, and slept with a member or two of the Royal family, yet she had never been inside these walls before. The irony was not lost on her, knowing the blackmail she'd almost completed four years ago, to be so close to the heart of the family she could have ruined. It felt so long ago, and an entirely different life.

"It was architect John Nash that transformed the former Buckingham House, to the lavish palace we've come to know today."

'_Quack-quack'_

Irene felt her thoughts interrupted by the sudden noise and searched through her purse while she noticed several tourist in her group glance in her direction. Eventually, she fished out her phone and gazed at the new text message.

'_I need you.' _

The guide cleared his throat ahead and continued, "Of course, the story of this place began long before 1706. Originally, this land wasn't suitable for a mansion. The Tyburn river made the lands a smelly, marsh-like place, and it was King Henry VIII in the 16th century who saw the swampy grounds as perfect for hunting. So before there was a house here, this was the private, royal hunting ground."

Within seconds, the phone sounded for a new text alert; _'Quack-quack'_

'_Come to Baker Street if convenient.'_

The woman tilted her head to the side as she read the text and smiled while she ignored all the angry looks the other people were casting in her direction.

'_Quack-quack'_

'_Come even if inconvenient.'_

The guide exhaled in irritation and raised his voice unkindly, "Of course, the Tyburn river stills runs beneath the Palace, channeled through the Victorian sours under ground... I'm sorry, ma'am - yes, you in the back - could you turn off the sound of your mobile?"

'_Quack-quack'_

Irene glared down at the final message.

'_Please__.'_

* * *

"What's this about?" Irene sighed as she stepped into 221 B and shot the detective seated behind the kitchen table a pointed glare.

The man barely registered her arrival as he looked into his microscope and left her hanging, like an apple on a forgotten branch.

"I'm not going to wait, Sherlock," the woman cooed and stepped closer. "I don't have the time. I have to pack. I have an early flight tomorrow."

The man didn't even raise his gaze as he bluntly disagreed, "Mm, no you don't."

"Excuse me?"

At last, Sherlock pushed back from whatever experiment he'd been busy with and met her eyes with indifference. "You're not leaving London."

She squinted and defensively growled, "Don't tell-"

"You told me you wouldn't abandon Molly while she's still in the ICU," Sherlock declared as he rose from his seat and wandered around the table to stand a few feet away from her. "You meant it. You're not actually planning on going anywhere."

"… Do you want to see my flight details for tomorrow? I can show them to you on my mobile."

"No need. It's only a diversion," the man said flippantly and clapped his hands together. "Now that we've cleared that out of the way, would you mind helping me with something?"

The woman hesitated. She raised her chin as she turned her back on the man and stepped into the living room. "It's over, isn't it? You and I?"

"Yes," Sherlock agreed with a curt nod.

With a smug, feline grin, she sank into the black, leather armchair and looked up at the man clad in a stellar, blue suit. "_Then why am I here_?"

"Because not _everything_ is over. Is it?" Sherlock cooed playfully and pocketed his hands as he slowly advanced on her.

"What are you talking about?"

"Lord Moran's case."

"… The man is dead."

"So he is," Sherlock dully replied and hovered behind the armchair by the window. "Could you walk me through the case?"

The woman frowned and glanced over her shoulder. "You know it all already."

"I'd still like to hear your version of it," the man said in a knowing, sing-song voice as he turned to her and stepped over to her seat once more. "What you've deduced about it. Go ahead. _Impress a man_."

With unexpected speed, the man grabbed for her wrist and withdrew something from his pocket. Irene heard the distinct clatter of metal on metal and glanced down at her hand as Sherlock stepped back a second later. He'd handcuffed her to the metal frame of the armchair and now stood a few paces away, smugly surveying his work of art.

The woman sighed as she tilted her head sideways and commented, "… You only used to do that with my silent consent. Do you want to _misbehave_, Sherlock Holmes?"

"I'm looking for information."

"I see…" she breathed dismissively as she looked down at the silver handcuff. "You know I can escape these."

"No, you can't. I destroyed the locking mechanism."

The clever woman eyed the detective curiously as if trying to learn his inner secrets without giving herself away. At length, she saw the common denominator and breathed, "… You must have eavesdropped into my conversation with your brother. You know he warned me and that's what this is all about."

"I need to know why."

"Do you though? _Need _to know?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Not relevant."

Irene slowly shook her head and leaned back in the armchair as if unwilling to step down from her role as predator. "It must be, since you can't drop it even after the curtain falls."

"It was only the end of the first act, though, wasn't it?" Sherlock cooed with a slight, grin that irritated her to no end.

"… I don't know."

"Then let's establish what you _do _know. Whatever my brother was hinting at during your meeting, you didn't connect it until you came here and saw my mind map," the man waved his hands in the direction of the wall. The photos and scribbles were still present up on the wallpaper. "You saw the connection between yourself and the case."

Irene gritted her teeth and crossed her legs. She pondered blatantly disagreeing with his mute order of compliance, but in the end knew this was something they both needed. Then again, everything had a limit and she needed to be sure she didn't cross that thin line right now. "… _Pressure points_. That wall of yours consists of pictures of old clients of mine. Exclusively so."

Sherlock nodded in gratitude as he smiled up at his wall. "_Of course!_ You saw the implicated threat that Moran was going after you in order to get to me. I'm assuming you also realized you were his intended target that day, when he shot Molly? Ten years without training will mess up anyone's aim, regardless of previous talent. Or, possibly, the two of you looked familiar from behind when looking through a rifle scope across the road."

Irene blinked. "… Yes."

"There's another problem, though," Sherlock grimaced, walked back to her and sunk into John's old armchair. Their feet brushed in the middle as he crossed one leg over the other and casually leaned back to face her. "Using you as my pressure point indicates a playful approach and level of intelligence Moran doesn't have or care to have. He prefers to cut straight to the point and doesn't toy with his food before consuming it. He's not like Moriarty."

The woman felt her throat go dry but forced herself to wear the mask. She wet her lips and slowly agreed, "Sebastian Moran didn't work alone."

"... The game's not over," Sherlock met her gaze strongly and something sizzled in the air between them. "Moran wasn't murdered by a lowly criminal. Whoever got him out of jail clearly had a hand in the disposal of him. For reasons I am still in the dark about. I hate not knowing."

"You're not the only one."

"There's mo-ore," Sherlock prodded in a singing, mocking tune and nudged her feet with his own. "Moran used you as my pressure point, putting _you_ at risk. When we were at the mill, Mary implied _you_ were protecting _me_, however… _Why_?"

Irene hid behind an impeccable grin and whispered, "Well, well… Brainy is still sexy. Never really wen't out of fashion."

The dark-haired man ignored her misbehaving mode with a weary sigh. His voice dropped an octave as he asked, "... Why did you do it?"

The woman inhaled slowly and pressed her lips tight together. The question had been raw and on the brink of vulnerable. She didn't need him to spell out for her that the sudden shift in tension had moved them to another topic closer to heart. The break-up was, after all, a memorable low point for them both.

With a grinned grimace, she tiredly said, "You know why."

Sherlock nodded. "To protect me."

"To protect _me_," Irene disagreed vehemently. "You know who I am; I'm a selfish person. Everything I do, I do for protection of _my own_ neck."

The man tilted his head to the side and remained silent for a long while. It seemed he tried to see past her walls, but was once more struggling to read her secretive depths. "… _Fibbing_."

"What does it matter, Sherlock? Neither of us wants this," she growled and tugged on her handcuffed hand. "Emotions. _Sentiment_. We both prefer a detached life. That's why I offered you the easy way out. _You took it._ That's the truth. Is it what you wanted to hear?"

The man's jaw was clenched tight as he met her gaze across the room, something indescribably hidden in his own secretive orbs.

She hadn't expected a reply and at length, she sighed and nodded down at her wrist. "Un-cuff me, Sherlock."

Without his former playfulness, the tall man rose from his seat and walked towards her. He fished out a small key from his pocket and un-cuffed her without making a scene of it.

Irene grimaced as she rose from the chair and glared down at the silver handcuffs dangling off the side of the leather seat. "You lied about the... Smart move."

Sherlock shrugged but didn't step back from her personal space. "Comes with the brain capacity."

The brunette grinned teasingly and her eyes danced with amusement as she turned towards the exit. Halfway to the staircase, she stopped and turned back around. As she met his gaze once more, her armory was lowered and she offered, "We all have secrets, Sherlock. They're our _secrets_ because if we voice them aloud… they may tear us apart."

"I need you."

Irene silently stared up at the man and tried to keep her features impassive as she tried to read the implication of his words.

Upon noticing her confusion, Sherlock frowned. "… for the _case_, I mean. I need your help to solve it."

"You were right, I'm not going anywhere," the fair woman smirked. "I'll stay and do what I can to stop whatever's coming, but know that it will be in _my way_. If I'm threatened, and the people closest to me are in danger... Well, I think it's time we played dirty, too, don't you?"

* * *

_To be continued._


	15. Vatican Cameos

_Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock Holmes!_

_A/N: There was a slight delay in uploading this chapter (and I'm not entirely pleased with it). Real life and coming plot twists got in the way._

* * *

**Chapter 15: Vatican Cameos**

John basically crashed through the open door like a steamroller alongside his wife and came to a skidded halt an inch past the threshold.

"We just heard the news," Mary breathed as she moved further into the small room.

At the center of the white, sterile chamber stood a lone infirmary bed. Crowded around the bed were Greg, seated in the chair closest to the bed with tears streaming down his worn face, and on the other side, Irene sat at the foot end of the bed with a satisfied grin upon her strong features. Sherlock hovered by the head of the bed like some stoic angel, while attempting to maintain some distance to the sentimental picture before him.

As John's eyes slowly made their way to gaze at the woman who'd been in that bed for over three months, he at last smiled down at Molly Hooper and felt his concerns fade into the remains of the day.

The young woman was half-seated against a pile of cushions and her ivory pale hands rested safely in her husband's grip. She looked quite disoriented, but tiredly alive nonetheless. The news that she'd awoken from her cursed slumber had come as quite the surprise less than an hour ago. John and Mary had just been about to head out for lunch when they'd received the news and hadn't even considered an alternative as they'd made a beeline for the infirmary. Working in the same hospital had it perks occasionally.

Molly smiled timidly and looked up at the blond man in the open doorway as if gazing through a thick fog. Eventually her big eyes cleared and she breathed, "_John_…"

Nothing more followed and the blond man smiled grimly. He hadn't expected her to still be awake due to her recent predicament, as a matter of fact, but was happy she was and that she'd recognized him, if even vaguely. It was a positive sign, though small it was. "It's good to see you, Molly. Real good."

The young brunette smiled and looked entirely exhausted. A slight frown lingered on her fair face and the man decided to write it off as mainly pain and post-traumatic stress.

When the room descended into a strong grip of silence, Sherlock exhaled and explained in a rapid, clear voice, "She'll be fine. As you know, her awareness will return gradually over time. It's too soon to tell all, but she's not suffering from an amnesia, at least. Her sight is currently down by 20 % and may never fully recover. She'll have a slight tremor in her right hand for a while. Apart from that, it's still too soon to know if there are other damages to her brain. She'll clearly reach full awareness… but it will take time. She'll stay within these walls another month or two. …Sorry, Graham. Meant to keep it short."

"_Greg_. Ah, well, at least you remembered it once," the grey-haired man huffed but his irritation didn't linger as he once more found his wife's imploring gaze.

"I believe we're crowding the young woman," Irene drawled suddenly. "We should give her some space to recuperate with her husband. _Alone_."

The brunette leaned forward and squeezed her friend's shoulder. Something dark flashed by in her pale, deep orbs, like stars in the blackest night sky. The flicker of emotion did not go unnoticed by Sherlock, who still lingered like a ghost in the periphery.

Irene smiled at the DI before she gracefully rose from the bed and glanced up at the detective. "Anyway, we ought to leave, no?"

The curly-haired man merely nodded once and his lips tightened almost unnoticeable.

John caught the exchange and glanced between the couple. "What's… what's going on?"

"There's work to be done, John," the detective explained and his eyes flickered down to the woman in the bed briefly. The blond man didn't need it spelled out in capital letters. Whatever this was, it could wait until the others couldn't overhear. Having seen his friend's realization, Sherlock breathed in a smooth voice, "The game is on…"

"I'll pop by tomorrow to see you both," Irene promised as she faced Greg and Molly a final time and then turned.

Sherlock slowly stepped forward as his path was cleared and gently pecked the hospitalized woman's forehead before he followed _The woman_ out the door.

"John, are you coming?" the tall man called expectantly over his shoulder.

Mary nudged her husband's shoulder as the other man hesitated. "Go, _go_! I'll cover for you at work. Go on."

* * *

"So what's this about?" John asked as his eyes gazed out the window of the cab. The tall, elegant houses swished by in a colourless blur as they approached familiar territory.

"You know how we found Sebastian Moran dead?" the brunette cooed from the other side of the backseat while Sherlock remained silent in the middle.

"Yeah…" the blond spoke sarcastically as his brain processed the unspoken implication. "I have a vague recollection. He's not back from the dead, is he?"

"No, and that won't change," Irene confirmed dryly as the cab stopped outside the black door beside the small, homily café. The slender woman opened the car door and glanced back at her friend. "But the game isn't over, John. Not by far."

"What? _That _game? Whu-?" the man felt his throat go dry as he searched Sherlock's impassive profile for clues but found not a trace to follow.

The detective merely followed the woman out of the car and John scrambled after. "I-I don't understand."

The consultant detective shrugged his long coat closer to his broad shoulders as he turned back to face his friend. Together they watched the cab drive away down the road while the truth settled in the air between them.

"It's all very simple, John. We just need to find the connection," Sherlock said matter-of-factly as he turned his attention back to the shorter man.

The woman tediously sighed. "If it's alright with you, I'll go up and get started."

Without waiting for an approval, Irene turned and headed inside. John looked at the closed door and then shifted his focus to his best friend, who still cautiously glared down at him.

"… What?" the blond managed meekly as his head spun like a ball of yarn from the jumbled news.

"We're working on the Moran case."

"Uh-huh…" John nodded slowly and squinted in irritation as if glaring up at a mystery. "You're doing _the Look_ again, you know."

"Oh, come on! You _do _know what's going on here!"

"The case with the dead bad guy," John shook his head as he felt his confusion rise up like the tide inside his chest. "It's _January_, the man's been dead for two months! Unless you're telling me he's risen from the grave like a zombie, I really don't see how this is a case!"

"The man who _killed Moran_ is still loose!" the detective breathed and his voice floated dangerously close to irritation and boldly matched that of his friend. "I admit: I was wrong then. It wasn't a lowly criminal, but someone far more intelligent and in a superior position. Irene and I have been working on figuring out who it is, but we're not sure what we're searching for... Recent intel from my homeless network suggests _something_ will go down this month."

"_Something_? Something as in… a terrorist attack?"

"Maybe. Possibly…" the dark-haired man tilted his head in hesitant agreement and then slowly admitted, "_Probably_."

"_Jesus_…" John growled as he shifted his feet on the pavement and glared down at the ground as everything else stopped spinning inside his mind. "I thought you said we were safe? That Moran took his plans to the grave?"

"Relative use of the term 'safe'," Sherlock hedged around the truth. "The danger, however, took another form, more threatening in its secretive grasp, I'm afraid."

"Right, _right_… so… There's _that_. And what's… going on with you two then?" John's gaze wandered up to the second floor window as he licked his lips and cornered the man before him. "What have I missed since Christmas? I thought you didn't get back together."

Sherlock simply shrugged. "We didn't."

"She's not living with you again?"

"_No_."

"… Then why is she still here?"

"She's helping me solve the case."

"I got that. _And?_"

The dark-haired made a moue. "No, that's it."

"You… _You_…" John opened and closed his mouth a couple of times until he finally drew a deep, strengthening breath. He pointed up at the man with a decisive glare and muttered, "… You'd better make it right, Sherlock. For _both_ your sakes." The detective frowned but his best friend saw right through it, "No, don't you pretend to be ignorant all the sudden! Molly _finally_ awakening reminds me of one thing… Life's too short, Sherlock. God knows with the amount of time the two of you have spent playing _dead_, it's a wonder you get to _live_ at all!"

"Must we have another one of these talks…" the other man grimaced and his gaze fell somewhere above his friend's head.

"Alright. _Fine_. It's the last one, I promise," the short man growled. "I only want to say this: I don't think you broke up because you were both afraid that your mind palace would crumble. I think you broke up because you both lost a child and didn't know how to process the emotions that came with it."

With a disinterested, tense shrug the detective's eyes slowly fell to his front door and a frown cast his features in sudden darkness. Before John had a chance to question it, the coat-clad man flew forward as he called out, "Someone's broken in!"

The doctor jumped into action as he followed his friend and eyed the door as he flew past in a rush. "I don't see any signs!"

"Oh, they're evidently _there_!" Sherlock climbed the steps two at a time as he cried out for his ex-lover, "Irene? _Irene_!"

As both ascended into the detective's flat, they found the living room in quite an unexpected mess. John's armchair lay knocked over by the fire place, a discarded gun not far from it and in between the two armchairs laid a huge, unconscious man. Seated in a fallen slump by the desk, Irene was clenching a broken croquet mallet in one hand as she tenderly touched her throat with the other.

Sherlock dove forward as he saw the look in the woman's eyes slowly turn into a thick fog. He knelt in front of her as his hands reached for her pale cheek.

"It's okay, it's okay," he breathed in a low, soothing voice that vibrated through the room as she gasped for air. With a gentle touch, he tried to pull her back to clarity. "Look at me."

Her sapphire gaze met his as she coughed. Her watery, red-shot eyes were all the evidence he needed. His hand lowered from her cheek to check her neck, the skin already turning a raging red. _Attempted asphyxiation_. Irene dully pushed his hand away and held her chin high as she gazed at John who'd stepped over to the fallen stranger.

"Did I…" she began in a raspy voice that burned her throat and she swallowed before she tried once more, "… kill him?"

The doctor shook his head and glanced back at them. "He's just unconscious."

Sherlock reached for the broken weapon by her side and nodded in approval as he twiddled it in his hand. "The mallet found in the Hartland case? _Inventive_."

"Who is he anyway?" John asked as he stepped back. "What did he want?"

"I didn't stop to ask," the woman muttered as she slowly rose from the ground with the detective's guiding hand. "I've seen him before. He… cornered me once. Well, _a__ttacked_."

"_When_?" Sherlock immediately demanded to know and his imploring gaze burned bright.

"August. He warned me of darker days ahead," Irene shrugged her eyebrows as the wild storm in her eyes raged with a distinct clarity. "He said I had to convince you to leave things be. Didn't specify what, only that you ought to step back before it started."

"You didn't tell me."

"Because I didn't want to alarm you! It was an empty threat."

"Ehm, clearly it wasn't!" John proclaimed as he waved his hands at the unconscious assailant.

"Oh, this makes perfect sense!" Sherlock breathed with tempered joy as he shrugged out of his coat and threw it atop the sofa. "And just according to plan, too! I've been waiting for this move. For our enemy to step up his game. If they are willing to openly attempt to kill Irene in order to weaken _me_, it's a sure sign we're getting close to the grand finale."

Irene cleared her throat and touched the soar parts of her neck as she managed a weakened, "…'They'?"

The man swatted his hand as if her question was an unwanted, redundant fly. "The criminal we're after adopted Moran's little network to his own, _obviously_. Whoever we're facing is expanding his own criminal network. Like a spider in a web…"

"...We need to learn their plan," the brunette breathed after a second.

Seeing the realization flash by in her passionate eyes, Sherlock grinned down at her. "_Exactly_."

John frowned and looked over at his friends. "So… eh, how do we do that? You've got an idea, don't you?"

* * *

"I don't like this idea," the blond man harrumphed and crossed his arms over his chest, like a dissatisfied father gazing condescendingly at his misbehaving children.

"Oh, lighten up, John," Sherlock said dismissively as he tightened the last knot and stepped back to gaze at his handy work. "This might be enlightening!"

The unconscious man, dressed all in different shades of black and grey, was seated in John's old armchair, tied in place by a strong rope to prevent him from running. The rest of the mess he'd left in the living room had also been tidied away to prepare the spectacle ahead.

John silently watched as his best friend crossed the room and picked up a slender object from the desk. It was his riding crop, and once more it was not intended to be used during riding. John shuffled from one foot to the other and cleared his throat.

"I really don't like this idea," he breathed bitterly.

"Duly noted," Sherlock's light tone countered and the other man couldn't help but wonder if this insistence to hurt had come about by some possessive, protective streak in his friend. Irene had nearly been killed, after all, and this could very well be Sherlock Holmes' own version of a vendetta. God knows he had a tendency to overreact by using physical violence whenever someone he cared about was in danger, not that he'd ever admit as much out loud.

The brunette sat in the other armchair and leisurely rose from it like a siren from the sea as the suit-clad man stepped closer. The leather groaned beneath her frame and the sound filled the room momentarily, as if asking everyone to take pause. It quietened as she took a step forward and raised her slender hand.

Sherlock glanced down at her expecting limb and childishly frowned as he held the crop above his head. "_No_."

Irene sighed and raised a challenging eyebrow. "I think this is more my field than yours, don't you? For this, there's a fine, _fine_ line you must thread to get what you want, between pain and arousal."

The man inclined his head once as he slowly handed her the black weapon of choice. "It's all yours."

"Wake him."

Sherlock turned to shake the unconscious man. His unfriendly grasp soon revived the assailant, who hissed in pain and tried to reach out to touch the growing lump on his forehead.

The man was almost as tall as the detective, but slightly wider across the chest. His dark skin tensed beneath the rope as he realized his current predicament, and suddenly he seemed neither wide nor tall as he shrank back against the backrest. His vivid, forest-colored eyes flew between the waiting trio.

"Hello…" Irene cooed and stepped forward as she wielded the riding crop teasingly between them. She hovered over him like a true predator before she lunged forward. She stomped down hard on his groin and leaned forward as he whimpered in pain. "Let's start by you explaining why you're here."

"To kill you!" the man wheezed and his panicked eyes flew between his captors. "It was my orders!"

"Why?"

"I don't know, I don't know!" the unnamed man whimpered and as Irene raised the riding crop he shrank back a little and hurriedly said, "It was to assure that the plan wasn't endangered!"

Sherlock's passionate glare intensified as he stepped forward and asked, "What plan? An attempt?"

The man snarled as _The woman_ pressed her shoe even harder on his family jewels. "_Yes! Fuck! Ow_!"

"A bomb?"

",,, Yes!"

"Where?" Irene inquired in a sultry, demanding voice and watched as the man hesitated. Her voice dropped an octave as she snarled, "_Where?_"

"Buckingham palace!"

"Good boy. When?"

"Within the week. I don't know more about it, I swear! It's not my division!"

The brunette shared a glance with the other two men as she confidently shrugged. "Ah well… That was the easy part."

"…_Hmm_?" the assailant managed meekly as his wide, frightened eyes rose to meet John and Sherlock's. His eyes pleaded with them, but both men merely shrugged as they watched the torture show move to the second act.

Irene removed her foot and instead widened her stance as she towered over her prey. "We can make this easy for you… or very hard. _Your_ choice. I only want one name. Who are you working for?"

The man shook his head and closed his mouth in a tight line. When he didn't concede with her order, _The woman_ whipped him hard across the thighs, not too far from his genitals. He groaned and tried to shy away from the blows but it was to no avail.

Irene raised the riding crop and gazed up at the detective with a grin, "No one ever likes it in the face. If it's anywhere else you can wear your scars proudly under the disguise of clothing. Your dirty secrets remain concealed. But when it's _the face_… you wear the scars with shame or not at all."

"_Godfrey Norton!_" the assailant whimpered at once and her hand stopped mid-air.

Sherlock threw the woman an impressed, loop-sided grin as she slowly stepped back. He didn't miss a beat as he took the relay race and set to work himself. He turned his back on the others as he muttered to himself, "_Norton_? …Where have I heard that name before?"

He barely needed the full five seconds before the answer replayed itself within his mind palace.

'_Mr Norton is here for an important meeting.'_

Without sparing the others a second glance, Sherlock grabbed his coat and dashed out the door in great haste, leaving the others to dispose of the failed assassin.

* * *

"_Godfrey_ _Norton_."

Mycroft stopped his promenade down the sidewalk outside the Diogenes' club and stopped on the dull asphalt as he sighed deeply.

Without turning around to face the voice's carrier, the older Holmes boy muttered, "You've been skirting along the edges of this for a long time, Sherlock. I'm surprised it took you this long. Did _The woman_'s presence dulled your mind so entirely?"

His younger brother stepped out from the shadows of the looming dusk and came to stand beside him on the busy street. Most people had ended their day of work only minutes ago and were crowding the streets, anxious to get home. They crossed the street on either side of the brothers but without paying them any regard as they droned on like tired robots.

Sherlock tried to read his brother's hidden secrets as his low voice filled the air, "_That's_ why he was at the Diogenes' Club in August. Not to work _with_ MI6, but to make _you _work for him."

The younger Holmes tried to read the emotions that filled his brother's eyes momentarily, but Mycroft easily sidestepped his attempts without barely missing a beat.

"Why would the CIA want you to work for them, Mycroft?" Sherlock demanded to know and his vibrating voice echoed dangerously between them. "What hold could they possibly have over you to make you incapable of action?"

Mycroft hummed and shook his head slowly. "So close... yet so far from the target."

"To make you release one of England's most dangerous criminals?" Sherlock ignored the other man's words.

Once more the older of the two simply shook his head from side to side in an almost mocking display of brotherly contempt. "You're no closer."

The detective's angry sigh lingered like a lion's growl in the tense air as he invaded his brother's personal space. "_Tell me_."

"You said it, Sherlock: I'm _incapable of action_..." Mycroft shrugged his eyebrows. "What more do you want me to reveal when you know I cannot at this time?"

Sherlock frowned as the wheels turned in his head. There was something off about his brother's tone of voice. Something that indicated he was on the right track in the intricate labyrinth, after all, and possibly closer to the heart of the issue than first anticipated. He opened his mouth to question it, but a shrill sound interrupted them. The man reached into his coat pocket and retrieved his phone as he allowed the momentary pause to wash over his confused mind.

He answered the call and pressed the phone to his ear.

"_Vatican cameos!_" Irene's panicked voice breathed on the other end before he could even say a word.

Sherlock felt his blood freeze to ice in his veins as he hurriedly questioned, "_What? Where are you_?"

There was not even a pause before she revealed, "Not me! _You_!"

The man barely had time to react as he finally heard the unmistakable sound of tires screeching almost painfully against the ground, as a car sped towards him down the narrow street. He spun around and saw the silver car with tinted windows fly towards them like a stampede of wild horses. There was barely time to react as he felt his brother's hands close around his arms and pull on him with surprising strength. He lost his balance and felt himself falling.

Mycroft and Sherlock hit the ground heavily and the car barely missed their bodies. Having failed its task, the vehicle vanished down the road in lightning speed.

The detective shot off the ground but decided against trying to catch up to the car. It was already too far away, and swerved around the corner further down the street in a mad haste. To attempt stalking it would be futile, he knew. With any luck, Irene could give a better account of the truth later. Instead, he turned to the shocked crowd that had hurried forward at the sight of the almost-incident.

Sherlock pushed a few people out of the way as he crouched down beside his brother. Mycroft groaned painfully as he sat up and his breathing was almost as swift and adrenaline filled as his brother's. The detective noticed how his older brother held his left arm close to his chest and a pained scowl colored his face in all shades of worry.

"It's dislocated," the younger man informed in a short tone as he helped his brother rise from the ground.

With trepidation still shining clear in his eyes, Mycroft breathed, "It was still a small price to pay, considering... Sherlock."

* * *

_To be continued!_


	16. Buckingham Palace

_Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock Holmes._

* * *

**Chapter 16: Buckingham Palace**

The day after the ominous incidents, Sherlock, John and Irene were hard at work trying to figure out when, how and why to anticipate the coming terrorist attack. Thanks to questioning the attacker, they had learned it would be Buckingham Palace, a bomb and within the week. It narrowed it down considerably, but still left more leeway than any of them preferred.

John sat by the desk going through anything he could think of on the laptop while Irene was on the floor in front of the sofa table. She sat tailor styled and gazed up at the mind map upon the wall as if she was a curious cat beholding the world and all its yarn.

Sherlock entered the room, clad in a sharp suit but with his red dressing gown used as jacket, and set down a steaming tea cup before the woman on the floor.

"Thank you, dear," the brunette threw him a swift smile before she returned to her tedious task.

The kind gesture did not go unnoticed by the doctor who looked his friend up and down for a closer inspection. Kindness just did not seem to come natural to him. "... Is that a new shirt?"

"It was a gift from Irene. Berlin." Sherlock explained as he set down a second cup beside his best friend, who nodded in gratitude.

"_Ah_..." John bit back his smirk as he conspicuously looked down at the woman who was paying them no interest.

Sherlock's shoulders slumped as he sank into the chair opposite the desk. "It's not what you think."

"I didn't say anything," his friend offered innocently.

"No, but I could hear you _thinking_ it!" The man's low voice reminded him of a wolf's growl. "Have you got anything?"

"I eh, it's kind of funny, I can't find anything on this Godfrey Norton," John acknowledged as he allowed his friend to change the topic. "He was a CIA-agent, but his file is closed. I don't know if that means he's classed as top security, if he's not an agent anymore or if he's supposed to be killed in action. I kind find any updated information."

"That's alright," Sherlock dismissed as he leaned back in his chair. He looked far more relaxed than anticipated considering he'd nearly lost both his brother and ex-partner the day before. "I hadn't expected you to, either."

"Because I'm not as clever as you?" the doctor questioned darkly and narrowed his eyes.

The curly-haired detective grinned knowingly but firmly shook his head. "No, John. He's been hidden from the start which suggests intelligence and a desire to remain unseen for the present time. I wouldn't underestimate his abilities to keep his secrets close to heart. But it won't get him far. If he believes he can build up Moriarty's network, he clearly suffers from a delusion of grandeur."

The blond man frowned and closed the laptop slowly. "Why do you say that?"

"Oh, _think_, will you?" Sherlock huffed and dramatically rolled his eyes. "_No one_ will ever be able to replace Jim Moriarty. The criminals of today don't trust anyone from the outside. Moran was working for Jim once and so he could have been accepted – which is the very reason I believe he had to be killed. Norton clearly was not from the inside."

"… You said the same about Lord Moran, once," John pointed out and knew he was treading on dangerous ground. "And you were wrong."

"I corrected that mistake, as you are aware," the other man said with a piercing glare that nearly set his eyes aflame. "Norton is different though. I can tell."

"Well..." the blond grasped at straws as he tried to offer something of value. "You said he was clever. Is it possible he knows that?"

Sherlock said nothing as a shrill sound interrupted the conversation, beckoning their work to a swift time-out. His intense gaze fell on the woman's back as her phone kept ringing and John followed the wandering look. Irene was still intently gazing at the map as if expecting to see the answers revealed in the middle of the pattern of the wallpaper. After four more signals, she at last rose from the floor and walked out of the room to answer the call.

The blond man leaned across the desk and whispered, "Is she running the show now?"

"So?" Sherlock shrugged his eyebrows indifferently.

John's eyes widened incredulously. "…_'So?'_ Since when do you let anyone run the show who isn't named Sherlock Holmes?"

The other man bit his bottom lip and seemed reluctant to share his thoughts, even when they were written plain as day in his cobalt orbs. "It pains me to admit; but I've reached an impasse. Irene, on the other hand, is a target to get to me, and those people are her old clients. If anyone can see another connection up there, it's her. _There_. Are you happy?"

"I don't know, are you?" John mumbled with surprise at his friend's hostile irritation. Without waiting for a reply he knew would never be forthcoming, he reached for the newspaper to keep his hands and mind occupied. He felt like he was watching a freak show in a circus, where all laws of nature were slowly turning in their heads as the mysteries unraveled. He had no idea how he fit into this crime solving world if the rules he'd come used to had suddenly changed the game. Was it even the same game anymore?

Irene stepped back into the living room a few seconds later and her eyes were filled to the brim with vague confusion she could not cover behind her strong facade.

"That was your parents..." she said distantly and a frown distorted her fair features briefly. "How did they get my number?"

"Mummy's inventive," the man waved off the dubiety missing his cue. "What did they want?"

She fixed him with a knowing look that screamed triumph and power, though her voice merely stated, "They wanted to discuss the wedding."

"_Oh_…"

_The woman_ eyed him with amusement dancing across her pale orbs. "Apparently we're aiming for a fall wedding, or so I'm told. I think they want to lock this down to make sure I don't try and escape."

The detective grimaced as he inclined his head. "Again: thank you for playing along."

John joined in on the fun with a sly grin. "You're going to have to tell them the truth eventually."

"_Eventually_," Sherlock acquiesced in a short tone and his sharp eyes told the others he was in no mood to continue down that road. "Have you gotten anywhere with my mind map?"

"Oh yes…" the woman all but purred as she stepped into the middle of the room and faced the decorated wall like an actress on a stage.

"What?" John questioned with a familiar rush of adrenaline pumping through his heart as he lowered the paper and gave her his full attention.

"_Buckingham Palace_."

"Eh, yeah... We knew that part already."

"You're missing the point," the woman breathed and threw her friend an exasperated look. John wasn't sure if he'd ever been more reminded of Sherlock Holmes when gazing up at her in this moment, illuminated by the pale sun outside and her own pride. "I admit, I was late to the party. This mind map was supposed to lead me to the Palace earlier. I believe these clues were supposed to be enough, without us having to question that man."

"What do you mean?"

"People who visit a dominatrix often have a need to be recognized," the woman cooed in a dark, teasing tone. "They show off, wanting to impress the one person they can't. _Me_. It's part of the mating ritual. As you know, the MOD that flashed me his email provided me with ammunition to use against the government, and I was always given news about the most intriguing detective stories before the police were done with the scene. Every single one of those clients up on that wall told me the same news. They couldn't help but brag that they'd been personally invited to Buckingham Palace... As you couldn't either when we first met."

The detective huffed. "That wasn't bragging. I was _informing_."

"You're a show off, Sherlock. Everything you do is bragging," Irene drawled disinterestedly as she turned to face them both.

Not amused by her choice of words, the man raised his chin and said, "As John pointed out, that information is useless to us now. Unless you realized something more about it?"

The brunette tilted her head sideways as her gaze trailed over to the blond doctor. "Tell me the news."

John jumped into action and glanced at the paper in his hand with an unprepared, "Eh, okay… _Eh_. Two men were killed near Piccadilly last night. Another missing person. A travelling circus is coming to town on Saturday. The President of the United States is landing today at 1 PM. A woman was disemboweled – _ugh_, that's-"

"Say that again," Irene interrupted with a voice that burned like a wick in the dark of night.

"_Disemboweled_…?"

She opened her mouth and simply closed it as she exhaled warily. John recognized that look. Clearly he'd missed something. Irene clarified, "The attack's happening today."

"Of course," Sherlock nodded and rose from his seat in a fluid motion. "The President intends to visit Buckingham Palace to see the Queen. She'll be home today, along with her family. And there will be a crowd waiting outside to see a glimpse of both her and the President."

"What better day to strike than when you've got people gathered to watch the Palace burn?" Irene asked and her low voice echoed the surge of adrenaline in all of them.

"That's good!" John breathed and dropped the paper as he rose to join the other two. "That gives us a time. But we still don't know _where_ this bomb will be located. The area around Buckingham is vast and the security is top-level, especially for this occasion. Where could you possible place a bomb today?"

"It could have been planted earlier," Sherlock suggested with a pointed look.

Irene stepped towards the wall and shook her head. As she turned back to them her eyes were vibrant and caught up in the midst of the game before them. "It won't be above ground or inside the building."

"Pardon?"

"_The Tyburn river._ The old sours still run beneath the Palace and would be the prime location to place a bomb," she explained herself with a feverish passion. "The building will collapse from the explosion and drag thousands of people with it. That's where he's placed the bomb!"

John nodded and licked his lips before glancing down at his wrist watch. "The President's already landed. They'll be on their way to Buckingham Palace as we speak. We might have less than an hour to stop this. Come on!"

The man jumped into action and stepped into the hallway to retrieve his jacket. Irene raised her foot to follow, but a firm hand on her shoulder held her rooted in place. Her eyes connected with her ex-lover's and noticed the confused storm that raged within his heart.

"_Your_ clients... Buckingham Palace is a nod to your little blackmailing affair with the royal family..." Sherlock muttered and looked taken aback as he glanced from the wall down to the short woman before him. "The game's targeted at _you_, isn't it?"

The woman brushed her hand across his forearm as she stepped away from his touch. "There will be time to explore what this means later, dear. For now, it's more imperative that we prevent the deaths of thousands of people. Don't you agree?"

* * *

The Hackney carriage dropped them off as close as was possible due to the crowds surrounding the extravagant, lavish Palace at the heart of London. The three of them gazed at the amount of human hurdles ahead and then ran head first into the crowds towards the building.

Being the tallest in the group, Sherlock pushed on ahead like a locomotive and the other two tried to keep up with his pace as they followed close behind. John pushed past a biker dude the size of Texas as he saw Irene nudge her way between a friendly gay couple. Everyone they passed turned to glare at their rude rugby behavior, but they didn't offer them as much as an apology when they stormed past. Frankly, John thought, if they knew the danger they were all in, maybe the crowd would part like the Red Sea for the trio and make their job easy for a change.

Sherlock found a gap in the masses beside a small group of flag waving Americans and halted a few feet from the closed black gates that surrounded Buckingham Palace. He could see the Presidential car parked inside the gates close to the entrance and he heard John curse from somewhere beside him.

The shorter man glared up at his friend and shouted, "We don't have any time!"

"We _have_ time, John!" the detective called back over the loud cacophony of the people and pulled the short man closer to his side.

"Where's Lestrade? I thought you called him!"

"He's doing his job as I asked," Sherlock nodded and glanced about at the amount of police cars gathered around the crowd to keep them in check.

"Oy! Where's Irene?!" the blond man suddenly questioned and his eyes flew frantically across the crowds. The woman seemed to have been swallowed whole by the sea that surrounded them. His heart skipped a beat as he faced his friend. "Sherlock!"

The man looked uncharacteristically grim all the sudden as he snarled, "She must have headed for the sours to disarm the bomb without us!"

"Alone?! She's quite mental that one, isn't she?"

"_Occasionally!" _the detective agreed before his eyes scanned the crowds. "Do me a favour, John. Look around for people who don't seem to belong here. If this attack is going down today, there will be someone watching from Norton's crew."

"It's like finding Wally in a sea of people, Sherlock! I don't even know what I'm looking for!" the shorter man sighed in exasperation as everyone around him blended into a blur by the sheer quantity of them. "Shouldn't we be rushing to help her?"

"In a second! I need to test my theory first!" the other man muttered only barely loud enough for his friend to hear before he spun around on the spot, his attentive eyes gathering all the information he needed. Within seconds Sherlock had eliminated 90 % of the crowd as common onlookers, but a handful of people stood out among the rest. As opposed to the anticipated attempt of blending in with the crowd, these were suit-clad men with impassive features. He only needed a glance to know they were neither Secret Service nor CIA.

"Dammit…" he cursed and tugged on his friend's sleeve so hard his knuckles were turning white. "_MI6_, John!"

"They must have heard about the bomb, too! No offence, but it's kind of comforting to know they're at it, too!"

Sherlock refrained from rolling his eyes as his voice vibrated threateningly, "If they know, then they're here to catch a terrorist! With Irene down in the sours, who do you think they'll capture in the act?"

John's eyes widened as his face blanched. "_Call her!_ We have to get her out of there!"

The detective had already hauled out his phone from his coat pocket and dialed the number. He pressed the phone to his ear and within seconds of her picking up, he cried out, "_Vatican cameos!_"

"What's wrong?" the woman breathed at the other end of the line.

"It's a set up, Irene! Where are you?"

"I just got down the northern entrance to the sours. Why? What's happening up there?"

"Stay where you are! Keep out of sight and do not look for the bomb! We're coming to get you out!" Sherlock cried out. Hanging up, he suddenly started to run through the crowds and pushed people away as if they were nothing but annoying flies in his way. A motorcycle appeared from the middle of the crowd just beneath the Victoria memorial and John gave a warning shout as it nearly slammed into the frantic detective. Sherlock stopped in time as the helmet-wearing driver sped off once more with an agitated roar of the engine.

The blond man caught up to his friend and saw the shock on the taller man's face as he tried to reel in his emotions. "You okay?"

"_Look_!" the detective pointed straight ahead where his field of view was suddenly cleared. He saw five of suit-clad men run north and his expression fell into something dark and unreadable. "They must have tapped into my phone, or hers. They know where she is. Come on! _Run!_"

John felt his heart sink as he heard the desperation in his friend's worried voice scrape away any remnants of impassiveness. He knew perfectly well the mayhem that would follow should _The woman_ be captured. Not only would she be accused of terrorism, but her past offences could very well resurface. He'd thought many things about Irene Adler's past behaviour, but he knew she wasn't capable to commit true atrocities. She was of a dubious nature, but that could be said about all of them at times. The important thing was that she'd changed for the better, and now everything balanced on a precarious edge. He'd hate to see her get caught for both Irene and Sherlock's sake. There was too much to lose this time.

As the two rushed through the crowds as fast as they could, John suddenly came aware that Sherlock was steering them more northwest than anticipated. As his feet hit the snow-covered grass in the One Day Garden just north of the Palace, even John knew they were slightly off-course. True, he didn't know where to find the proper entrances to the old sour Irene had mentioned, but even he'd seen the suit-clad agents run down the street to the left rather than straight into the park.

When the detective slowed his speed to a gentle jog and soon a swift walk, his best friend felt his jaw drop. As he slowed his own pace to match the other man, he jerked his thumb behind them.

"What's…? Where's…?" he managed meekly and cleared his throat. "Irene's still in the sours, isn't she? _What are we doing?!_"

The tall man pocketed his hands and glanced down at his friend as he kept walking. For all appearances, he seemed to be out on a quiet stroll in the park instead of intending to save the woman of his dreams. "Keep your voice down, John, I'd rather keep our escape stealthy."

"_Sherlock_!" the blond man all but hollered as his head whipped back to the Palace behind them. He felt a sliver of panic rise within his chest that mingled with his confusion. "Why aren't we running to her side?"

"It was all a ruse. She's not in any danger."

"Excuse me?" the other man blinked and roughly reached up to tug on his friend's shoulders. The man reluctantly allowed himself to be stopped and faced his friend as they were far out of earshot from the masses of people.

Sherlock sighed and shrugged out of the grasp. "It's a long story…"

John shook his head in disagreement. "I'd say we've got the time since we apparently don't have to save Irene. What do you mean a ruse?"

"There was never going to be a terrorist attack."

"But that guy you and Irene tortured…?"

Sherlock grimaced and explained in a fast voice, "Norton clearly considered him collateral damage. If the guy had any proper information, he wouldn't have been caught by us. He'd been told lies that he merely repeated to us under pressure. I believe the only point of that was that Norton wanted his name revealed to me at last."

"Why?"

"Uncertain," the detective made a moue at the necessary admission of his own lack of reply. "I thought he wasn't ready for it yet, but evidently we've entered the last stages of his game."

"And today?"

"Well, we knew there wasn't actually going to be a bomb," Sherlock shrugged as if this had been plain as daylight all along.

"How did you...?"

"_Please_," the detective glanced down at his friend with amusement before he rushed to explain the rest, "But Norton is clever and holds sway over the MI6. Irene and I suspected beforehand that MI6 were either told there was actually a bomb, or were playing along with Norton for uncertain reasons. My guess is advanced blackmail, but we lack evidence so far. It _was_ a set up today, John. I knew it was the second I saw those agents in the field. They wanted to trap us inside the sours. Well, _her_. They tapped my phone to get her location. A lot of people have wanted her... gone since her power play with the royal family."

"Sherlock..." John wet his lips as he slowly asked, "... Where is she?"

He was met with a reassuring smile. "Safe and far away from here by now."

"I don't understand. When? _How_?"

"_The motorcycle_."

The blond man nodded slowly as he recalled what he had believed to be a close call by the Victoria Memorial sculpture. Thinking back on it now, it all made sense in his head and he managed a weak, "I see."

"We had it arranged just in case we'd need an escape plan," the detective explained and his confident grin returned to his full lips as the two men started walking towards the park's exit again. "With a change of jacket and a concealing helmet, she was good to go. With the crowd as disguise, no one would notice her disappearance in such plain sight. She got away in time."

John exhaled as he felt the last remnants of adrenaline leave his restless legs. "Thank God she's safe…"

"_No,_ thank _me_," Sherlock all but beamed down at his friend and ally. "Come on. Let's get out of here before the agents realize their screw-up."

* * *

_To be continued…_


End file.
